BORN   FEB.  27,  1807.       DIED   MAR.  24,  188*. 


POETS'    HO 


PEN    AND   PENCIL   SKETCHES 


AMERICAN  POETS  AND  THEIR  HOMES 


a  7  ?  7 


R.    H.   STODDARD    AND    OTHERS 


Two   Volumes  in  One 


BOSTON 

D    LOTH R OP    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT   BY 

D.    LOTHROP    Si    CO. 
1879. 


CONTENTS. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  . 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER      .  . 

MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY 

J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE        .        .        • 

MR.  J.  J.  PIATT  AND  MRS.  S.  M.  B.  PIATT 

EDGAR  FAWCETT  .        .        . 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  .  . 

BAVARD  TAYLOR 


PAGE 
I 

19 

28 

45 

56 

75 

84 

101 


CONTENTS. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS 119 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA        ....  139 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD    ....  158 

MRS.  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD  AND! 

I  196 
Miss  MARY  N.  PRESCOTT 

MRS.  CELIA  THAXTER 230 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN      .  253 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH        .         .        .  366 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

IF  it  may  be  said  of  any  living  man  that  he  is  known 
all  over  the  world,  it  may  be  said  of  Henry  Wads- 
worth  Longfellow.  His  words  seem  to  travel  on  the 
swift  rays  of  light  that  penetrate  unto  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth.  James  T.  Fields,  in  his  Longfellow 
lecture,  tells  of  the  strange  and  far-away  places  in 
which  he  has  felt  his  heart  warmed  at  sight  of  a  well- 
worn  copy  of  Longfellow's  poems.  He  has  the  touch 
of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  for  he  is 
not  more  warmly  appreciated  in  his  native  land  than 
in  the  hearts  and  homes  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world. 

Everyone  knows  the  brief  outlines  of  the  poet's  life. 
He  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  1807.  He  en 
tered  Bowdoin  College  when  he  was  fourteen  years 
old,  and  graduated  there  in  1825.  He  traveled  in 
Europe  three  or  four  years,  preparing  himself  for  the 


2  Poet1;    Ifomes, 

professorship  of  modern  languages  in  his  own  college. 
In  1835  he  was  elected  Professor  of  Modern  Lan 
guages  and  Belles-Lettres  in  Harvard  College.  He 
held  this  position  until  1854,  when  he  resigned.  He 
has  since  lived  in  Cambridge,  in  the  old  Craigie 
House  on  Brattle  street.  His  literary  life  began  very 
early.  While  an  undergraduate  he  published  many 
of  his  most  beautiful  poems  in  different  newspapers. 
It  may  cheer  discouraged  young  writers  to  know  that 
for  one  of  these,  "  Sandalphon,"  he  received  as  pay 
ment  a  year's  subscription  to  the  newspaper  in  which 
it  was  published.  In  recalling  this,  he  said  laugh 
ingly  that  it  was  not  so  bad  as  the  fortune  of  a  friend 
of  his,  who,  after  having  contributed  largely  to  a  cer 
tain  paper,  was  invited  by  the  genial  editor  to  take  an 
ice,  by  way  of  making  things  square  between  them. 
Can  it  be  that  our  magnificent  editors  of  to-day  have 
descended  from  such  untoward  sires  ? 

Longfellow's  first  book  was  published  by  the  Har 
pers.  He  sold  the  copyright  for  five  hundred  dollars 
and  thought  himself  fortunate.  Doubtless  his  pub 
lishers  were  as  well  satisfied.  From  that  time  his  lit 
erary  career  has  been  one  unvarying  success. 

As  regards  that  other  life,  dearer  than  his  public 
labors,  more  sacred  than  his  intellectual  record,  — 
here,  too,  Longfellow  has  been  written  Blessed 


Henry    Wadsworth  Longfellow.  3 

True,  he  has  known  poignant  sorrow.  Death  has  en 
tered  his  home  and  taken  from  it  his  dearest.  That 
this  is  a  sorrow  ever-abiding,  and  one  from  which  in 
one  sense  he  will  never  recover,  the  years  have 
proved.  His  melancholy  is  but  dimly  seen,  like  a 
smoke  curling  upward  from  a  blazing  fire,  yet  it  is 
present  always,  veiling  his  cheerfulness  and  sadden 
ing  his  smiles.  "  I  never  heard  him  make  but  one 
allusion  to  the  great  grief  of  his  life,"  said  an  intimate 
friend.  "  We  were  speaking  of  Schiller's  fine  poem, 
1  The  Ring  of  Polycrates,'  and  he  said, '  It  was  just  so 
with  me,  I  was  too  happy.  I  might  fancy  the  gods 
envied  me  —  if  I  could  fancy  heathen  gods.'  " 

As  if  striving  to  make  amends,  fate  has  given  him 
every  other  good  gift ;  fortune,  fame,  and  the  sweeter 
gifts  of  love,  gratitude  and  reverence  from  those  he 
has  cheered,  helped  and  elevated;  a  lovely  family 
whose  youth  and  brightness  shed  ,  sunshine  over  his 
evening  days,  and  a  home  that  must  be  a  joy  forever 
to  the  poet's  soul. 

Perhaps  I  could  not  interest  any  readers  better 
than  in  telling  them  something  about  this  beautiful 
home.  It  was  rich  in  associations  when  Longfellow 
first  came  to  it  as  a  lodger.  It  was  builded  midway 
in  the  last  century,  by  a  gentleman  of  family  and  dis 


Poets" 


tinction,  Col.  John  Vassol,  whose  gravestone  in  Cam 
bridge  bears  upon  it  a  sculptured  goblet  and  a  sun. 
After  the  Revolutionary  War  the  house  was  bought  by 
one  Thomas  Tracy,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  sort 
of  American  Vathek,  emulating,  as  far  as  possible  in 
an  uncongenial  clime,  the  magnificent  doings  of  the 
Eastern  prince.  Traditions  float  down  to  us  of  the 
lavish  opulence  of  these,  the  golden  days  of  Vassol 
Hall  ;  how  wine  flowed  like  water,  servants  lived  like 
kings,  a  hundred  guests  sat  down  every  day  at  the 
banquet  table,  and  from  the  far-off  lands  of  the 
Orient,  treasures  of  silk  and  jewels  and  gold  flowed 
into  the  coffers  of  the  lucky  Thomas  Tracy.  But 
debts  grew  many  and  friends  grew  few.  The  gener 
ous  host  found  himself  one  day  bankrupt  ;  his  career 
cut  short  ;  for,  unlike  our  modern  princes  he  did  not 
fail  —  to  get  rich. 

With  the  passing  of  his  wealth,  clouds  gathered 
about  the  old  home.  We  hear  of  it  no  more  until  it 
came  into  the  hands  of  the  last  owner  save  one  — 
Andrew  Craigie.  It  proved  a  white  elephant  on  his 
hands,  as  it  had  on  those  of  his  predecessors.  The 
expenses  it  entailed  ruined  him  ;  necessity  obliged 
him  to  part  with  all  save  eight  of  the  two  hundred 
acres  originally  included  in  the  estate,  and  after  his 
death  Mrs  Craigie  was  forced  to  let  lodgings  to  the 


Henry    Wads  worth  Longfellow.  5 

youth  of  Harvard —  pigmies  all  to  her,  though  to  us 
such  intellectual  giants  as  Everett,  Worcester,  Sparks 
and  Longfellow  were  among  them. 

Of  this  old  reduced  gentlewoman  some  curious 
stories  are  told.  She  was  tall  and  stately,  of  a  dignity 
that  commanded  deference,  and  a  sternness  that  for 
bade  love.  Even  her  husband  stood  in  awe  of  his 
august  spouse.  We  have  more  than  one  ghastly 
picture  of  her  as  she  appears  in  the  reminiscences  o1 
those  who  knew  her  in  her  age  and  loneliness  and 
pride. 

On  one  occasion  her  young  poet-lodger,  entering 
her  parlor  in  the  morning,  found  her  sitting  by  the 
open  window,  through  which  innumerable  canker 
worms  had  crawled  from  the  trees  that  they  were  de 
vouring  »outside.  They  had  fastened  themselves  to 
her  dress,  and  hung  in  little  writhing  festoons  from 
the  white  turban  on  her  head.  Her  visitor,  surprised 
and  shocked,  asked  if  she  would  do  nothing  to  destroy 
the  worms.  Raising  her  eyes  from  her  book  —  she 
sat  calmly  reading,  like  indifference  on  a  monument 
—  she  said,  in  tones  of  solemn  rebuke :  "  Young 
man,  have  not  our  fellow-worms  as  good  a  right  to 
live  as  we  ? "  aa  answer  which  throws  Uncle  Tobey's 
"  Go,  little  fly ! "  quite  into  the  shade. 
(As  this  grim  old  lady  lay  a-dying  she  sent  for  the 


5  Poets'  Homes. 

lodger  to  bid  him  farewell.  He  approached  the  bed 
side  and  looked  silently  upon  the  spectral  figure,  the 
withered  face,  the  gray  hair.  Suddenly  drawing  the 
bed-clothes  close  around  her,  she  opened  her  keen 
sunken  eyes,  bright  one  moment  before  dimming 
with  death,  and  uttered  this  strange  greeting  and 
farewell : 

"  Young  man,  never  marry,  for  see  how  ugly  an  old 
woman  looks  in  bed ! " 

In  1843  tne  house  was  bought  by  Mr.  Longfellow, 
and  from  that  time,  with  tender  love  and  reverent 
care  he  has  adorned,  beautified  and  perfected  it.  He 
has  made  it  what  it  had  not  been  in  all  its  changing 
fortunes  —  a  home.  Taste  has  guided  the  hand  of 
wealth,  and  from  year  to  year  have  been  added  beau 
ties  of  art,  curiosities  from  every  land,  and  sacred 
relics. 

The  very  atmosphere  is  different  from  that  of  other 
houses.  It  has  a  sacred  hush,  due  in  part,  it  may  be, 
to  the  all-subduirig  power  of  association  — 

"  Once,  ah,  once  within  these  walls 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls,  — 
The  Father  of  his  Country  dwelt — " 

yet  none  the  less"  a  result  of  that  nameless  influence 
—  intangible  and  fragrant  as  the  odor  of  a  flower  — 


ffenry    Wadsworth  Longfellow  7 

that  emanates  from  pure  and  beautiful  minds,  and 
makes  the  spiritual  life  of  a  home. 

The  house  is  set  back  from  the  road,  behind  a  lilac 
hedge  blossoming  in  spring  with  purple  and  white. 
On  either  side  are  broad  verandahs  from  which  one 
can  look  across  to  Charles  River  and  the  blue  hills 
of  Milton. 

The  meadow  between  is  always  bathed  in  sun 
shine,  and  on  its  green  slope  some  new  picture  is  ever 
forming  itself;  children  at  play,  mild-faced  cows 
cropping  the  grass,  or  the  little  woman  in  the  red 
cloak,  whom  artists  delight  in,  as  the  needed  bit  of 
color  in  a  landscape. 

October  is  the  best  month  for  seeing  the  place  in 
all  its  beauty.  Then  the  clustering  lilacs,  still  green 
with  summer  freshness,  are  over-run  with  the  wild, 
red  beauty  of  riotous  woodbine,  dying  in  a  glow  of 
defiance.  Then  from  the  trees  fluttering  leaves 
of  welcome  float  into  the  outstretched  hand,  or 
fall  gently  before  the  advancing  feet. 

The  old  elm  at  the  door  is  stripped  of  its  leaves, 
and  you  wonder  at  the  fine  network  of  interlacing 
boughs.  Charles  River,  now  clearly  seen,  winds 
along  like  an  S  of  running  silver.  October,  too,  is 
the  time  to  walk  in  the  old-fashioned  garden  —  a 
garden  such  as  Andrew  Marvell's  must  have  been. 


8  Poets"  Home*. 

"  I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness." 

This  "little  wilderness"  is  shut  out  from  inhar 
monious  sights  and  sounds.  To  come  from  the 
noisy  world  into  its  cool  retreat,  is  from  Avernus  to 
the  Happy  Valley. 

One  can  imagine  fairies  in  the  flower-cups,  and 
spirits  gliding  down  the  shaded  walks.  Spirits  of 
stately  dames  in  embroidered  petticoats  and  high 
heeled  slippers,  and  gallant  courtiers  with  sheathed 
swords  and  powdered  queues ;  and  with  these 
majestic  ghosts,  the  fair  young  muse  of  poetry, 
gazing  at  them  with  clear  eyes  unabashed,  know 
ing  that  at  her  hands  they  lose  not  one  grace  or 
remembered  glory. 

Sitting  in  the  half-ruined  summer-house,  I  almost 
wished  the  doctrine  of  Pythagoras  were  reversed, 
and  that  my  soul  might  pass  into  the  flower  grow 
ing  beside  me,  or  the  bird  singing  overhead.  I 
envied  the  little  golden  lady-bugs  that  sunned 
their  magnificence  in  the  poet's  garden,  and  won 
dered  if  the  lazy  caterpillars  knew  what  good 
fortune  awaited  them  as  butterflies  in  this  e.'rrhly 
paradise. 

Perhaps  the   most  interesting  room   in  the   house 


Henry    Wadwuorth  Longfellow.  g 

is  Longfellow's  study.  Here  most  of  the  poet's 
hours  are  spent,  the  quiet  only  broken  by  the 
chimes  of  the  old  clock  in  the  corner.  It  is  one 
of  those  antique  time-pieces,  higher  than  a  man's 
head,  with  a  round  moon  face  at  the  top,  such 
as  are  found  in  some  old  New  England  houses, 
and  are  a  sufficient  guarantee  for  the  respecta 
bility  of  the  family.  An  open  fire  burns  cheerily 
in  the  grate. 

An  orange-tree  stands  in  the  window,  and  near 
it  an  Egyptian  stork  keeps  watch.  A  table  in 
the  centre  of  the  room  is  heaped  with  books 
and  papers,  and  has  a  look  of  orderly  disorder. 
Its  choicest  treasure  is  Coleridge's  inkstand.  Here, 
too,  is  an  early  volume  of  Coleridge's  poems, 
annotated  in  his  own  handwriting,  which  is  as 
scraggly  as  that  of  a  genius  ought  to  be.  On 
this  table  are  piles  of  unanswered  letters ;  only 
a  sharp-toothed  mouse  could  get  through  them 
in  a  month's  time. 

That  which  future  generations  will  regard  with 
most  interest  in  this  room,  is  a  book-case  filled 
with  Longfellow's  own  works  in  the  original  man 
uscripts.  They  are  handsomely  bound,  as  befits 
the  clear,  beautiful  writing,  and  make  a  noble  col 
lection. 


to  Poet?  Homes. 

It  is  a  pity  to  divide  them,  yet  what  one 
should  monopolize  such  a  heritage?  Perhaps  pub 
lic  gift  will  eventually  be  made  of  them.  Some 
baby  now  unborn  may  donate  them  where  they 
will  be  safe  through  the  generations. 

Among  the  pictures  here  are  crayon  likenesses 
of  Emerson,  Sumner  and  Hawthorne,  all  taken 
when  these  famous  men  were  in  the  flush  of 
youth. 

Passing  through  the  hall  we  enter  "Lady  Wash 
ington's  Drawing  Room."  The  furniture  is  white 
satin  covered  with  gay  flowers  in  vines  and  clusters  \ 
arm-chairs  and  sofas  are  heaped  with  soft  cushions 
covered  with  the  same  material.  The  carpet  is  a 
bed  of  flowers. 

The  effect  is  greatly  heightened  by  a  large  mirror 
opening  another  gay  vista,  and  a  picture  in  gor 
geous  colors  extending  from  wall  to  ceiling.  It 
is  one  of  Copley's,  "The  Grandchildren  of  Sir 
William  Pepprell."  A  quaint  little  maiden,  in 
a  high  cap  and  stiff  bodice,  a  youth  with  flowing 
curls,  and  a  wooden-looking  poodle  compose  the 
group.  The  picture  is  set  in  a  massive  burnished 
frame,  and  the  effect  would  be  oppressive  in 
another  room,  but  is  in  admirable  harmony  with 
this  state  apartment 


ffcnry    Wadsworth  Longfellow.  \  \ 

I  On  an  etagcrt  laden  with  treasures  is  an  agate 
cup  from  the  hand  of  no  less  a  master,  Benvenuto 
Cellini  —  clear,  exquisitely  carved,  graceful  in  shape, 
and  guarded  by  two  tiny,  open-mouthed  dragons. 
It  was  sent  to  him  from  the  collection  of  the 
poet  Rogers,  and  has  therefore  a  double  value 
in  Longfellow's  eyes.  As  he  holds  it  in  his  hand 
and  points  out  its  beauties,  one  can  but  think 
what  a  crowd  of  associations  are  gathering  in  its 
delicate  cup. 

In  the  dining-room  we  see  rare  old  china,  a 
nodern  picture  of  a  cardinal  in  red,  walking  in 
the  Borghese  gardens,  and  several  family  portraits 
Among  them  is  Buchanan  Read's  picture  of  "  Long 
fellow's  daughters,"  that  has  been  photographed 
so  often,  the  "blue-eyed  banditti"  that  the  poet 
father  has  so  charmingly  apostrophized  in  "  The 
Children's  Hour:"  • 

"  Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair." 

From  this  room  we  pass  into  a  long,  narrow 
hall,  running  the  length  of  the  house.  At  its 
head  great  Jove  looks  before  him  with  big,  un 
seeing  eyes,  while  on  either  side  are  those  lovely 
marble  women,  who,  in  spite  of  Lord  Byron'a 
couplet,  — 


is  Poets'  Homfs. 

u  I've  seen  more  beauty,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal," 

still    hold  their  own  —  as    embodied    ideas   in   hu 
man   shape  —  against   their  living  sisters. 

The  library  is  the  most  beautiful  room  in  the 
house ;  dark  and  rich  in  tone,  with  a  look  of  spa 
cious  elegance  and  home-like  comfort.  On  three 
sides  the  walls  are  lined  with  books.  The  bronzes 
and  Japanese  screens  are  studies. 
^^Here  hangs  a  portrait  of  Liszt.  The  back-ground 
is  dark,  and  he  is  dressed  in  the  long  black  convent 
robe.  High  above  his  head  he  holds  a  lighted 
candle.  The  rays  shape  themselves  like  a  halo 
round  his  head,  and  throw  into  fine  relief  the  thin, 
spirited  face. 

Mr.  Longfellow  saw  him  thus  for  the  first  time 
as  he  stood  in  the  convent  door,  peering  out  into 
the  night.  The  vision  impressed  itself  on  the 
poet,  and  he  persuaded  Liszt  to  have  his  picture 
painted. 

From  the  library  a  passage  leads  to  the  billiard- 
room,  now  fallen  into  disuse,  and  converted  into 
an  aesthetic  lumber-room,  where  one  would  delight 
to  dream  away  a  rainy  day. 

The  rooms  up-stairs  are  as  full  of  interest  as 
those  below. 


Henry    Wadsworth  Longfellow.  13 

One  suite  has  been  fitted  up  by  Mr.  Longfellow's 
son  in  Japanese  style.  The  wall-paper  is  of  neu 
tral  tint,  ornamented  with  Japanese  fans  in  groups 
of  twos  and  threes.  The  heathen  gods  frown  at 
you,  national  arms  are  collected,  tai>les  are  heaped 
with  Japanese  books  made  on  the  principal  of 
cat  stairs,  and  photographs  of  Japanese  beauties, 
with  button-hole  mouths,  and  long,  bright  eyes, 
abound. 

This  article  would  become  a  catalogue  of  de 
scription  should  I  try  to  enumerate  half  the  curi 
osities  to  be  seen  in  this  grand  old  house.  One 
cabinet  alone,  with  its  medley  of  treasures,  is 
worth  an  afternoon's  study.  Here  is  a  bit  of 
Dante's  coffin  ;  there  an  agate  cylinder,  and  some 
brilliant  African  beetles.  Two  canes  attract  you ; 
one  is  made  from  the  spar  of  the  ship  on  which 
the  Star  Spangled  Banner  was  written,  the  other 
comes  from  Acadie,  and  is  surmounted  by  a 
hideous  head,  which,  Mr.  Longfellow  says,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  was  the  poet's  idea  of 
Evangeline. 

Your  readers  are  probably  all  familiar  with 
Saxe  Holm's  exquisite  story,  "  Esther  Wynn's  Love 
Letters,"  and  will  recall  how  Uncle  Jo  found  these 
letters  on  the  cellar-stairs ;  how  mysterious  terrors 


14  Poets'1  Homes. 

gathered   round  them    until   it   was  discovered  that 
they   slipped  through   a   crack   in   the    upper   stairs 
where    they  had    been    nailed    for    safe    keeping. 
This   is   a  true   incident.     It  was  Mr.    Longfellow's 
house   that   held    the    letters,    and    he   who    found 
them   on   the   cellar-stairs. 

They   were   written   to   the    husband  of    the   old 
lady  who  sat   with   her    fellow-worms    in    the    par 
lor —  and  were  placed  by  him  in  their  hiding-place 
— for   what   reason   none   will    ever    know.       They 
were   not   such   love-letters   as   Esther   Wynn's,  but 
an   interest   scarcely   less   tragic    attached    to  them. 
Mr.  Longfellow  had  intended  making  them  a  subject 
for  a  poem ;  but  Saxe    Holm  forestalled  him   in  her 
story. 

^      ........ 

/A  visitor  in  1877  thus  records  his  impressions  : 
He  is  of  medium  height,  well  made,  with  no  sign 
of  age  in  figure  or  walk.  His  head  and  face  are 
eminently  poetic.  His  forehead  is  broad,  benig 
nant,  and  full.  The  great  charm  of  his  face  centres 
in  his  eyes ;  of  an  unclouded  blue,  deep-set,  under 
overhanging  brows,  they  hold  an  indescribable  expres 
sion  of  thought  and  tenderness.  Though  seamed 
with  many  wrinkles,  his  face  is  rarely  without  the 
rosy  hue  of  health,  and  would  appear  that  of  a 


Henry    Wadsworth  Longfellow.  15 

much  younger  man  but  for  its  frame  of  snow-white 
hair.  Hair  and  whiskers  are  long,  abundant  and 
wavy,  and  give  the  poet  the  look  of  a  patriarch. 

His  manner  has  a  child's  simplicity,  yet  is  of  an 
impregnable  dignity.  Tolerant  to  all  opinions,  cour 
teous  to  all  men,  he  is  approached  nearly  only  by  the, 
few.  When  with  friends  there  is  a  dash  of  gentle 
humor  in  his  talk,  more  mirth-provoking  than  livelier 
sallies  from  wittier  men. 

In  his  home  his  hospitality  is  proverbial.  Bret 
Harte  has  called  him  the  ideal  poet,  and  he  is  ideal 
host  as  well.  His  gentle  tact  and  exquisite  courtesy 
remind  one  of  that  fine  compliment  paid  to  Ville- 
mand  —  which  is  a  fine  definition  of  politeness  — 
"  when  he  spoke  to  a  lady  one  would  think  he  had 
offered  her  a  boquet." 

Nothing  can  ruffle  his  courtesy ;  not  even  such 
remarks  as  were  once  made  to  him  by  some  English 
visitors,  neither  nice  nor  wise  —  that  "  there  were  no 
ruins  in  this  country,  so  they  thought  they  would 
call  and  see  him." 

He  is  emphatically  the  poet  of  the  beautiful,  and 
his  life  is  as  rounded  and  complete  as  one  of  his 
own  sonnets  or  a  Beethoven  symphony.  He  is  not 
one  of  those  great  men  who  must  be  seen,  like  an 
oil-painting,  at  a  distance,  but  the  nearer  one  ap- 


1 6  Poets'  Homes. 

preaches,  the  filler  show  the  outlines  and  shadings 
of  his  character. 

On  Friday,  March  24th  1882,  the  beautiful  earthly 
life  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow  came  to  a  peaceful  close. 
From  countless  tributes  paid  to  his  memory  the  wide 
world  over,  a  few  paragraphs  are  here  selected  from 
a  memorial  address  made  by  Hon.  J.  D.  Long  : 

'•  What  a  poor  and  meagre  chain  of  little-meaning 
links  is  this  narrative  of  dates  and  events,  which  we 
sometimes  call  a  man's  life!  It  is  of  little  conse 
quence,  accept  for  the  dear  association's  sake,  what 
was  the  name,  or  residence,  or  birthplace,  or  age  of 
the  poet.  Of  what  interest  to  us  is  even  the  great 
globe  of  the  sun  in  itself,  compared  with  the  radiance 
which  is  its  soul  and  which  fills  the  universe  with 
light  ?  Do  not  tell  me  that  Longfellow  was  born 
and  had  honors  and  degrees  and  a  professorship, 
and  crossed  the  seas ;  for  these  things  come  and  go, 
and  now  flash,  now  faint.  But  tell  me  that  his  mind 
was  full  of  gentle  and  ennobling  thoughts,  for  these 
live  forever.  Tell  me  that  he  loved  children,  and  wrote 
songs  of  them  and  for  them  ;  and  let  me  hear  my  little 
girl,  as  she  comes  down  the  stairs  in  the  morning,  repeat 
untaught  the  verses  which  he  made,  and  which  are  a 
bridge  from  his  soul  to  hers,  and  from  all  human 
souls  to  one  another,  When  some  poor  creature 


Henry    Wadsworth  Longfellow.  17 

with  nothing  but  a  throne  and  a  crown  is  dead,  his 
subjects  hail  his  successor,  and  shout,  The  king  is 
dead,  long  live  the  king !  When  our  king,  the  poet, 
is  laid  to  rest,  we  may  well  cry,  The  poet  is  dead,  long 
live  the  poet !  For  he  succeeds  himself,  and  is  dead 
only  to  live,  even  on  earth,  a  larger  and  more  present 
life  in  his  verse,  and  in  the  songs  and  hearts  of  the 
people. 

"  It  is  a  poor  commonplace  to  say  that  Longfellow  is 
the  poet  of  the  people,  for  no  poet  is  a  great  or  true 
poet,  who  is  not  that.  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind 
us  not  so  much  that  we  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
as  that  our  lives  are  sublime,  if  only  we  will  not  cum 
ber  or  debase  them.  Not  by  putting  into  melody 
something  that  is  beyond  and  above  you  and  me,  not 
by  breathing  a  music  so  exquisite  that  it  never  trem 
bles  in  our  fancies  and  prayers,  does  the  poet  rise  to 
excellence ;  but  by  voicing  the  affections,  the  finer 
purpose,  the  noblenesses,  that  are  in  the  great  com 
mon  nature, —  in  the  sailor  up  the  shrouds,  in  the 
maiden  lashed  to  the  floating  mast,  in  the  mother  lay 
ing  away  her  child,  in  the  schoolboy  at  his  task  or 
play,  or  counting  the  sparks  that  fly  from  the  black 
smith's  forge,  in  the  man  at  his  work  or  when  he 
rests  from  it,  raided  by  blue-eyed  banditti  from  the 
stairway  and  the  hall.  So  the  poet  teaches  us  not 


1 8  Poets'  Homes. 

our  disparity  from  him,  but  our  level  with  him  ;  not 
our  meanness,  but  our  loftiness. 

"  Resignation,  The  Day  is  Done,  The  Children's 
Hour,  The  Footsteps  of  Angels,  seem  like  the  spoken 
language  of  our  own  souls.  The  music  he  wrote  is 
all  lying  unwritten  in  us.  Let  us  sing  it  in  our  lives, 
which  we  can  as  he  sung  it  from  his  pen,  which  we 
cannot. 

"It  was  a  beautiful  life.  It  was  felicitous  beyond 
ordinary  lot,  and  yet  not  so  far  beyond.  The  birds 
sung  in  its  branches.  The  pleasant  streams  ran 
through  it.  The  sun  shone  and  the  April  showers 
fell  softly  down  upon  it.  The  winds  hushed  it 
to  sleep.  And,  while  now  he  falls  asleep,  let  us 
read  his  verse  anew,  and  draw  into  our  lives  some 
thing  of  these  serenities  and  upliftings.  So  for  our 
selves  and  one  another,  remembering  the  poet's  life, 
living  hereafter  with  the  poet's  hymns  in  our  ears, 
may  our  sadness  resemble  sorrow  only  as  the  mist 
resembles  the  rain ;  may  we  know  how  sublime  a 
thing  it  is  to  suffer  and  be  strong  ;  may  we  wake  the. 
better  soul  that  slumbered  to  a  holy,  calm  delight; 
may  we  never  mistake  heaven's  distant  lamps  for  sa'd 
funereal  tapers  ;  and  may  we  ever  hear  the  voice  from 
the  sky  like  a  falling  star  —  Excelsior  !  " 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

THE  old  county  of  Essex,  Massachusetts,  is  fer 
tile  in  suggestions  of  poetry.  It  is  dotted  with 
sunny  villages,  shady  farms,  landscapes  diversified 
with  pure,  clear  rivers,  and  land-slopes  before  which 
rolls  the  broad,  open  sea.  Every  old  farm-house  has 
a  legend,  and  every  town  its  quaint  bit  of  colonial 
history. 

The  Merrimac,  that  industrious  river,  goes  dim 
pling  through  it  to  the  sea,  shaded  in  summer  by 
wooded  hills,  and  reflecting  in  autumn  the  leafy  rubies 
of  newly-cut  timber-lands,  or  the  grand  forms  of  old 
trees. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful !  "  exclaimed  President  Wash 
ington,  in  his  journey  to  Haverhill  in  1789,  as  his  eye 
fell  on  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Merrimac.  "  Ha 
verhill  is  the  pleasantest  village  I  ever  passed 
through ! " 


ao  Poets'  Homes. 

In  this  pleasant  old  New  England  town  there  was 
born,  in  1808,  a  poet,  with  whose  ballads,  we  doubt 
not,  most  of  our  readers  are  acquainted.  He  is  i\ 
descendant  of  an  old  Quaker  family,  which  settled 
along  the  banks  of  the  Merrimac  when  Haverhill  was 
a  frontier  settlement,  and  the  Indians  burned  its 
houses,  and  carried  unhappy  Hannah  Dunstan  into  a 
long  captivity. 

The  Colonial  Whittiers,  refusing  the  protection  of 
the  garrison  in  these  perilous  times,  relied  upon 
just  and  kind  treatment  of  the  Indians  for  defence. 
They  found  their  peace  principles  and  their  habit  of 
dealing  justly  with  all  men  a  more  sure  defence  than 
muskets  or  stockades.  The  family  used  to  hear  the 
Indians  at  the  windows  on  the  still  winter  nights,  and 
occasionally  would  see  a  red  face  and  fierce  eyes  at 
the  window-pane.  But  though  their  neighbors  were 
murdered  and  their  property  destroyed,  the  Quakers 
were  never  molested. 

The  poet's  early  home  was  an  ample  old  farm-house 
in  East  Haverhill.  As  you  may  read  about  it  in 
"  Snow  Bound  "  it  need  not  be  described  here.  In 
recent  years  it  has  fallen  somewhat  into  decay,  though 
its  grand  old  trees  and  primitive  expression  have 
been  partially  preserved. 

The  poet,  when  quite  young,  was  sent  to  school  to 


G.     Whittler. 


a  queer  old  pedagogue,  who  received  pupils  in  a  room 
in  his  own  house.  The  teacher  did  not  succeed  in 
governing  his  wife,  however  well  he  may  have  gov- 


J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


erned  his  scholars.  Like  Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  gave 
his  pupils  gingerbread  and  told  them  stories,  this 
easy-going  man  adopted  the  persuasive  method  of 
preserving  order  and  imparting  instruction. 


21  Poets'  Homes. 

14  Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife, 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments." 

The  young  scholar  had  few  books  of  poetry  in  his 
early  years,  but  nature  was  to  him  a  continual  poem 
The  warm  grasp  of  friendship,  the  blue  sky  of  spring 
and  the  changing  splendors  of  fall,  —  these  were  to 
him  sources  of  poetic  inspiration.  He  was  a  mere 
boy  when  he  began  to  express  the  glowing  feelings  of 
his  soul  in  verse. 

One  day  he  ventured  to  send  a  poem,  which  he  had 
copied  in  blue  ink  on  some  coarse  paper,  to  an  anti- 
slavery  journal  called  the  Free  Press,  published  in 
Newburyport.  The  editor  of  the  paper,  William 
Lloyd  Garrison,  found  the  poem  on  the  floor  of  his 
office,  it  having  been  tucked  under  the  door  by  the 
postman.  His  first  impulse  was  to  throw  the  manu 
script  into  the  waste-basket ;  but  being  a  conscientious 
man  he  gave  it  a  reading.  He  had  not  read  far  before 
he  discovered  in  the  lines  evidence  that  they  were 
written  by  a  true  poet. 

The  poem  appeared  in  the  Free  Press.     Other  poems 


y.    G.     Whittier.  23 

i'rom  the  same  writer  came  to  the  office,  and  they  im 
pressed  Mr.  Garrison  so  favorably  that  he  made 
inquiries  of  the  postman  whence  they  came.  He  was 
told  that  they  probably  had  been  sent  by  a  farmer's 
son  in  East  Haverhill. 

Mr.  Garrison  thinking  that  he  ought  to  encourage 
so  promising  a  writer,  rode  over  to  East  Haverhill  to 
call  on  his  new  contributor.  He  found  him  at  work 
ivith  his  father  on  the  farm.  The  young  man  acknowl 
jdged  the  authorship  of  th«  poems.  The  visit  of  the 
editor  must  have  been  a  happy  surprise  to  him,  for 
Appreciation  is  never  more  stimulating  than  in  youth. 

Mr.  Whittier  —  for  such  our  readers  will  have  rec 
ognized  to  be  the  poet's  name  —  began  life  as  a 
teacher.  He  came  to  Boston  when  about  twenty-one 
•  ears  of  age,  where  he  was  employed  editorially  on 
the  New  England  Weekly.  Returning  to  Haverhill 
I  &  was  elected  to  the  Massachusetts  Legislature,  and 
afterwards  went  to  Philadelphia  as  editor  of  the 
Freeman.  But  his  love  of  a  quiet  life  led  him  again 
to  the  Merrimac,  and  he  settled  in  the  rural  town  of 
Amesbury,  where  the  moral,  political  and  pastoral 
poems,  by  which  he  is  best  known  to  the  world,  were 
mostly  written. 

His  home  is  a  plain,  neat  house,  in  the  most  quiet 
part  of  the  town.  At  a  little  distance  the  open  coun- 


24  Poets'  Homes. 

try  stretches  in  front  of  its  windows.  Near  it  stands 
a  Quaker  meeting-house,  on  the  border  of  a  grove  of 
birch  and  pine,  around  which  a  shady  road  goes  wind- 


HOME  OF  J.  G.  WHITTIBR. 

ing  through  the  light,  sandy  soil.     Not  far  behind  it 
rolls  the  Merrimac  through  hill-slopes  variegated  with 


y.   G.    Whittier.  25 

glossy  birches,  billowy  oaks,  and  dark  clusters  of 
laurels  and  pines. 

The  poet's  home  was,  for  many  years,  in  charge  of 
his  maiden  sister,  Elizabeth  H.  Whittier,  a  woman  of 
lovely  character,  who  fully  sympathized  with  her 
brother  in  his  literary  work.  It  is  said  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  submit  to  her  criticism  the  first  copies 
of  whatever  he  wrote.  The  old  Quaker  preachers, 
anti-slavery  reformers,  and  many  eminent  writers,  used 
to  visit  the  Whittiers  at  this  time,  and  enjoy  the  cosy 
hospitality  of  the  sonny  rooms.  A  well-tilled  garden 
blossomed  without,  household  pets  added  to  the 
charming  simplicity  within,  and  the  wooded  hills, which 
enclosed  the  homestead  like  a  park,  rolled  away  in 
the  distance  to  the  busy  river  that  ran  to  the 
sea. 

The  associations  of  Whittier's  poetry  ai#  almost 
everywhere  to  be  found  in  the  county  in  which  he 
lives.  The  Merrimac,  which  clasps  many  historic 
towns  in  its  arm,  on  its  bending  way  to  the  sea,  is 
his  river  of  song. 

Marblehead,  -perhaps  the  quaintest  town  in  Amer 
ica,  with  its  sea-worn  rocks,  and  its  light-houses  flam 
ing  at  evening  above  the  silvery  lagoons  of  the  ocean, 
is  the  scene  of  Skipper  Ireson's  punishment.  New 


26  Poets'    Homes. 

buryport,    where    Whitefield's    coffin    may    si  ill    be 
seen, — 

"  Under  the  church  on  Federal  Street," 
:s  the  scene  of  "  The  Preacher." 

The  curving  beaches  that  sweep  away  from  the  old 
coast  towns  of  Gloucester,  Ipswich  and  Marblehead, 
are  accurately  described  in  "The Tent  on  the  Beach," 
and  in  other  poems.  "The  Shoemakers,"  "The 
Huskers,"  "The  Drovers,"  and  "The  Fishermen," 
are  subjects  of  poems  that  but  picture  familiar  scenes 
;.n  Amesbury  and  in  the  neighboring  towns. 

Most  of  his  historical  ballads  are  associated  with 
places  which  the  old  inhabitants  point  out  to  the 
stranger  who  visits  Essex  County,  and  the  incidents 
of  many  of  them  were  told  at  the  farmer's  firesides 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Like  the  brothers  Grimm  in 
Germany,  the  poet  has  collected  these  old  tales,  and 
?;iven  them  enduring  fame  by  clothing  them  in  the 
choicest  language. 

Mr.  Whittier  wears  the  silver  crown  of  seventy 
years.  His  poems  are  among  the  aesthetic  treasures 
of  every  intelligent  family,  as  far  as  the  English  lan 
guage  is  spoken.  They  are  recited  in  every  school 
and  quoted  from  many  a  platform  and  pulpit.  Theii 
influences  range  widely,  and  always  for  good. 


.    G.     Whittier. 


27 


It  is  indeed  a  blessed  life  that  multiplies  such  influ 
ences  among  mankind  !  "  His  poetry,"  says  one  of 
his  old  friends,  "  bursts  from  the  heart  with  the  fire 
and  energy  of  the  ancient  prophet,  but  his  noble  sim 
plicity  of  character  is  the  delight  of  us  all !  " 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

ALSTEAD,  N.  H.,  Sept.,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  EDITH :  I  cannot  let  the  pleasant 
summer  pass  quite  away  with  St.  Michael, 
who  "  keeps  the  gate  ablaze  with  autumn's  heraldry," 
without  giving  you  a  sketch  of  our  life  "  among  the 
hills,"  here  at  Mrs.  Whitney's  summer  home,  in  the  old 
farm-house  on  Alstead  heights.  You,  and  the  "  other 
girls,"  will  like  to  hear  something  about  our  fashion 
of  living  in  this  primitive  part  of  the  .world,  I'm  sure; 
but  you  would  enjoy  the  being  here  a  great  deal 
more ;  for,  to  my  mind,  it  is  about  the  perfection  of  a 
simple,  unfettered,  charming  country  life  ;  and  Alstead 
belongs  to  one  of  the  loveliest  regions  of  picturesque 
New  England. 

Mrs.  Whitney's  very  own  home  is  in  Milton,  near 
Boston,  you  remember ;  but  she  has  not  lived  there 
for  several  years,  not  since  before  she  went  abroad, 
while  Alstead  has  been  her  abiding-place  during  three 

28 


Mrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  29 

or  four  summers,  and  was  last  winter  as  well.  This 
season  she  has  filled  the  house  with  a  "  picked  "  party 
of  her  friends,  nearly  all  Boston  people  —  Hubites,  all 
of  whom,  in  their  own  manner  of  speech,  I  "  admire  " 
to  know.  As  our  landlady  says,  we  are  eight  "  per- 
manents ; "  but  there  are  several  "  temperies,"  in  the 
language  of  "  Emery  Ann,"  who  have  made  the  agree 
able  variety  in  our  household.  This  doesn't  include 
the  farmer's  family  of  four,  the  smart  Yankee  help, 
and  the  great  brindle  cat,  the  handsomest  and  most 
dignified  of  his  race,  whom  his  mistress  endearingly 
addresses  as  "Tommy"  and  "my  child,"  but  who  is 
known  to  the  rest  of  us  as  "  Lord  Bacon."  I  wish 
you  could  appreciate  the  tonsorial  twang  with  which 
the  name  is  enunciated.  Mr.  Whitney,  who  has  a 
tender  heart  for  "  Our  Dumb  Animals,"  is  addicted 
to  feeding  him  surreptitiously  at  table;  but  "Lord 
Bacon's "  mother  doesn't  approve,  and  orders  him 
peremptorily  into  the  kitchen  when  she  sees  him 
yielding  to  the  temptation  of  proffered  cheese  and 
tidbits. 

We  have  delightful  times  in  one  way  and  another 
Mrs.  Whitney  is,  in  a  manner,  the  center  around  which 
all  revolve.  Her  room  is  the  nucleus  of  the  house ; 
she  presides  at  the  table,  and  she  is  deferred  to  natu 
rally  by  each  one  of  us.  We  depend  entirely  upon  our 


30  Poets'  Homes. 

own  resources  for  amusement,  since  we  are  in  true 
seclusion,  in  the  "deep,  green  country,"  Alstead  being 
off  the  line  of  ordinary  summer  travel. 

It  is  seventeen  miles  from  Keene,  and  six  or  eight 
from  Bellows  Falls ;  and  a  lumbering,  big,  antique 
stage  travels  every  afternoon  from  ''The  Falls"  to 
Alstead,  carrying  mail  and  passengers,  with  a  curiosity 
in  the  shape  of  an  octogenarian  driver,  as  hale  and 
active  as  another  man  of  fifty. 

We  leave  the  pretty  white  village,  with  its  roofs  and 
spires  nestling  amid  the  trees  and  embosomed  among 
the  hills,  and  "  wind  about,  and  in,  and  out "  at  the 
base  of  them  until  we  begin  an  ascent  two  miles  up 
a  three-mile  hill  that  rises  steeply  to  the  table-land 
where  the  Town  Center  is  built ;  and  we  reach  our 
old-fashioned  farm-house,  which  has  stood  here  over 
a  hundred  years,  with  its  barns  opposite,  screened  by 
two  stately,  wide-spreading  elms,  and  the  huge  old 
poplar  on  the  piazza  side.  I  have  often  wondered 
what  old  Puritan  with  an  artist's  eye  it  could  have 
been  who  selected  a  building  site  of  such  unrivaled 
beauty,  commanding  so  glorious  a  sweep  of  country^ 
bounded  by  those  mountain  ranges,  in  "purple  dis 
tance  fair." 

One  croquet  ground  is  in  the  green  door  yard  at 
the  front,  and  this  is  Mrs.  Whitney's  special  domain, 


Mrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  31 

for  she  is  an  enthusiastic  and  skillful  player.  There 
is  another  on  the  slope  to  the  left  below  the  piazza, 
frequented  by  the  less  aspiring  croqueters,  who  say, 
jocosely,  that  they  haven't  graduated  into  the  scien 
tific  ring  yet.  You  need  not  ask  me  where  I  belong ! 
Well,  the  view  is  much  finer  from  our  ground,  at  any 
rate ;  and  I  solace  myself  with  the  beauty  of  the  hills 
and  the  splendor  of  the  sunsets,  when  I  make  partic 
ularly  unlucky  hits.  You  would  enjoy  a  game  with 
Mrs.  Whitney.  She  would  be  an  opponent  worthy  of 
your  mallet,  for  she  handles  hers  like  the  mistress  of 
the  situation,  even  when  she  plays  with  Ben  and 
Doris,  who  are  renowned  champions. 

This  is  the  pleasantest  spot  in  all  Alstead  —  the 
"  Place  of  Beautiful  Streams."  (One  of  us  discovered 
the  Saxon  meaning  of  the  name  in  some  old  book, 
the  other  day.)  I  wish  I  could  send  you  a  pencil- 
sketch  which  would  do  justice  to  the  place. 

The  beautiful  fields  fall  and  swell  away  from  us  in 
lovely  curve  and  undulation,  rich  with  many  shades 
of  green  and  gold.  The  near  hills  darkly  wooded  with 
birch  and  pine,  the  distant  mountains,  in  all  their 
varying,  exquisite  tints  of  blues  and  grays  and  purples, 
make  the  gift  of  sight  a  perpetual  joy. 

Over  the  little  latticed  entrance  porch,  where  we 
often  gather  after  breakfast  to  enjoy  the  sparkling 


32  Poets'  Homes. 

freshness  of  the  morning  and  chat  for  a  few  minutes 
on  the  sunny  stoop,  a  luxuriant  vine  is  trained,  spread 
ing  and  climbing  up  the  sides  of  the  house.  Our 
hostess  calls  the  flowers  "  Morning  Beauties ; "  and 
the  vine  curtains  greenly  one  window  of  Mrs.  Whit 
ney's  room.  She  is  very  fond  of  the  delicate  bell-like 
flowers,  with  their  green  heart-shaped  leaves,  and 
gathers  some  every  morning  to  fill  her  little  vases 
and  dishes,  for  the  decoration  of  her  tables  and  man 
tel-shelf. 

Beside  the  bower-window  stands  her  desk,  near  the 
well-filled  bookcase.  Don't  you  think  you  would  like 
to  sit  down  at  Mrs.  Whitney's  own  desk  and  write 
your  letters,  as  I  have  done  ?  There's  quite  an  inspi 
ration  in  it.  There  are  pictures  on  the  walls,  but  the 
one  you  would  like  best  is  an  exquisite,  full-sized  en 
graving  of  a  painting  which  Mrs.  Whitney  loves  very 
much,  and  which  a  dear  friend  sent  her  last  Christ 
mas,  —  the  "  Mother  and  Child  "  of  the  Holbein  in 
the  Dresden  Gallery.  Then,  there  are  some  bright 
autumn  leaves  painted  by  her  "  own  girl,"  which  an 
old  countryman  who  came  up  here  to  do  some  work 
the  other  day  took  for  real,  saying  "he'd  some  to 
home  could  beat  them  for  color."  Mrs.  Whitney  her 
self  paints,  and  is  filling  a  large  book  with  lovely 
vines  and  wild  flowers  and  colored  branches  from  the 


Afrs.  A.  D,   T.    Whitney.  33 

woods,  done  in  water  colors ;  and  she  brought  home 
some  exquisite  little  copies  in  water-color  of  pictures 
abroad.  I  should  like  to  show  you  a  tender  Madonna 
face,  from  Raphael,  which  I  covet,  and  one  of  Fra 
Angelico's  rainbow-winged  angels. 

Sometimes  several  of  us  sit  and  sew  and  talk  in 
this  pleasant,  shaded  room,  or  "  spill  over,"  as  she 
would  say,  into  the  hall  and  porch,  or  on  the  stairway. 
This  is  a  very  sociable  fashion  we  have ;  and  we  keep 
all  our  daors  open,  except  when  we  are  busy  working 
or  studying.  But  we  oftenest  congregate  on  the  cool 
piazza,  where  Mrs.  Whitney  has  her  reclining  chair 
and  camp  chairs  carried  out  for  our  greater  comfort, 
and  where  she  sometimes  reads  to  us  while  we  work. 

We  have  particularly  jolly  times  at  dinner,  when  we 
have  been  apart  during  the  morning,  some  of  us  wan 
dering  in  the  woods,  others  busy  in  our  own  rooms. 
By  way  of  variety  we  often  make  French  our  table- 
talk,  and  we  find  French  jokes  infinitely  amusing. 
Mrs.  Whitney  is  especially  charming  at  table  with  her 
air  gracieux,  in  her  dainty  bit  of  a  white  lace  cap, 
and  the  white  crocheted  shawl  thrown  over  her  light 
cambric  dress.  None  of  us  profess  to  make  grand 
toilets  at  Alstead ;  but  some  people  have  the  knack 
of  making  themselves  bewitching  under  whatever  cir 
cumstances. 

3 


34  Poets'  Homes. 

Opposite  Mrs.  Whitney  sits  her  husband,  a  fine- 
looking,  gray-haired  gentleman,  with  a  delightfully 
benevolent  face.  Besides  being  a  friend  of  cats,  he 
is  a  great  walker,  the  chief  of  our  pedestrian  excur 
sions,  and  indefatigable  in  all  he  undertakes. 

We  have  done  a  good  deal  of  driving  about  the 
country  this  summer.  Fancy  a  wagon  load  of  us 
starting  out  for  a  long  morning's  ride,  or  a  day's  ex 
cursion.  You  know  how  merry  such  parties  are.  We 
have  adorned  our  new  whip  with  red,  white,  and  blue 
streamers,  and  trot  gayly  up  and  down  hill  and  through 
the  village  streets,  with  our  patriotic  ensign  flying  on 
the  breeze. 

We  are  generally  drawn  by  two  remarkable  -steeds, 
which  some  wicked  wags  among  us  have  christened 
"  Hydrophobia  "  and  "  The  Caterpillar,"  because  one 
of  them  seems  to  abhor  water,  as  Nature  was  once 
said  to  abhor  a  vacuum,  and  the  other  drags  his  lei 
surely  length  along,  up  hill  and  down,  with  a  sublime 
scorn  of  whip  or  cheering  word. 

One  charming  excursion  we  made  was  to  Keene, 
and  we  were  gone  the  livelong  day,  driving  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  with  constant  shifting  mountain  views, 
grand  old  Monadnock  and  Ascutney  ever  and  anon 
looming  up  our  horizon  like  some  rugged  monarch 
with  his  royal  consort.  On  our  return  from  the  pleas- 


Afrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  35 

ant  New  England  town,  through  the  pretty  valley  of 
the  Ashuelot,  we  were  caught  in  a  heavy  rain  storm, 
but  defied  the  elements  with  umbrellas  and  water 
proofs  in  spite  of  our  open  wagon,  and  when  the  sun 
shone  out  presently  through  the  still  falling  shower, 
a  perfect  and  exquisite  rainbow  was  flung  against  the 
green  mountain  slope  to  our  right,  each  soft  and  bril 
liant  hue  in  the  arch  of  color  defined  against  the  vivid 
emerald. 

Mrs.  Whitney  says  such  rainbows  cast  on  the  earth, 
as  it  were,  are  not  unusual  in  mountain  regions ;  but 
I  had  never  seen  one  before. 

I  wish  I  could  take  you  into  Alstead  woods  with 
us,  my  dear.  I'm  inclined  to  believe  there  are  few 
more  fascinating  pursuits  than  the  following  up  of  the 
beds  of  the  mountain  brooks,  which  abound  here. 
The  ferns  and  mosses  are  beyond  anything  I  ever 
dreamed  of.  There  are  endless  delicate  varieties  in 
the  damp,  shady  places ;  and  graceful  great  clumps 
and  clusters  of  ferns  spring  up  everywhere.  Of  course 
we  have  pressed  ferns  by  the  hundreds,  and  made 
ferneries,  and  gone  into  birch-bark  work. 

There  is  a  grove  about  three  miles  from  here,  where 
one  actually  wades  in  an  acre  of  maidenhair,  not  to 
mentiori  other  places  where  it  abounds.  I  never  be- 
Lore  found  it  excepting  in  rare  nooks  and  small  quan- 


36  Poets'  Homes. 

titles ;  but  then  I  never  before  was  in  New  Hamp 
shire. 

There  are  three  cascades  within  the  circuit  of  a 
mile,  all  formed  by  the  same  winding,  rocky-bedded 
brook,  each  one  more  bewildering  than  the  last,  each 
one  with  its  ardent,  special  admirers. 

Mrs.  Whitney  describes  the  lowest  and  greatest  of 
these,  in  one  of  the  last  chapters  of  "Other  Girls," 
better  than  I  could. 

Some  days  we  bring  our  books  to  some  lovely  spot 
in  the  woods,  and  read  French  and  German,  while 
the  thrushes  and  robins  sing  overhead.  One  of  the 
young  men  has  made  us  a  bower  fit  for  an  Oread  or 
Dryad,  in  the  pine  woods  below  the  house,  across  the 
mowing,  and  past  the  field  of  yellow  oats.  The  only 
drawback  in  these  haunts  is  the  presence  of  mosqui 
toes,  but  we  brave  them,  not  seldom,  and  after  our 
reading  strap  up  our  books  with  our  shawls,  take  up 
our  birchen  staves,  and  explore  the  woody  depths, 
coming  home  laden  with  vines,  —  gaylium  or  crow 
foot, —  and  lately,  as  the  autumn  comes  on  apace, 
with  gay  bunches  of  purple  Michaelmas  daisies  and 
yellow  golden-rod. 

I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  of  our  "  barn-talks  " 
before  I  make  an  end  of  this ;  symposiums,  I  would 
call  them,  if  we  ever  indulged  in  such  long  words  on 


Mrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  37 

Alstead  heights.  Mrs.  Whitney  sometimes  takes  her 
writing  into  one  of  the  barns,  and  makes  a  nest  for 
herself  in  the  soft,  fragrant  hay-heap.  She  used  to 
keep  a  dictionary  and  some  books  of  reference  on  a 
little  shelf,  which  one  of  the  boys  fixed  up  for  her  in 
the  mow,  and  come  out  here  regularly.  We  are  spe 
cially  fond  of  the  place  on  Sunday,  when  we  spend 
the  greater  part  of  the  morning  here,  since  there  is  no 
church-going  until  afternoon.  We  fling  the  great  doors 
wide,  and  pile  the  sweet,  fresh  hay  on  the  floor,  and 
sit  where  we  can  look  out  upon  the  picture  of  waving 
trees  and  distant  slopes,  which  the  lintels  enframe ; 
and  where 

"  Far  off,  leaning  on  each  other, 

Shining  hills  on  hills  arise, 
Close  as  brother  leans  to  brother 

When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  some  father  praying  blessing 
From  the  gifts  of  Paradise." 

And  we  have  our  best  talks  here,  in  the  quiet  and 
restfulness  which  seem  peculiarly  the  atmosphere  of 
this  day  even  in  this  peaceful  land,  whither  the  cares 
and  turmoil  of  life  do  not  often  penetrate  as  in  the 
busy  places  of  the  world.  I  think  the  talks  are  better 
even  than  her  writings,  Edith ;  I  often  wish  that  some 
of  the  girls,  who  have  been  influenced  to  higher 
things  by  her  books,  could  come  to  herself  with  their 


38  Poets'  Homes. 

questionings  and  wonderings.  Her  faith  is  so  high, 
and  clear,  and  sweet.  The  blessed  words  come  tc 
you  with  a  new  power  in  them  as  she  points  out  theii 
spiritual  meanings.  The  girls  who  love  her  would  be 
helped  to  find  out  things  for  themselves,  which  is  the 
best  kind  of  helping,  after  all. 

Mrs.  Whitney  is  a  beautiful  needlewoman,  and  does 
all  kinds  of  work  accurately  and  exquisitely.  To  watch 
her  sew,  whether  in  dress-making  or  fancy-work,  you 
would  imagine  that  was  the  only  thing  she  had  e,ver 
tried  to  do.  You  may  tell  the  girls,  Edith,  that  she 
never  has  taught  or  suggested  any  occupation,  house 
wifely  or  otherwise,  to  them,  that  she  is  not  an  adept 
in  herself.  Her  skillful  fingers  have  a  wonderful 
knack  in  them,  and  she  isn't  apt  to  undertake  any 
thing  which  she  doesn't  carry  out  thoroughly.  This 
summer  she  is  crocheting  two  charming  afghans, 
taking  up  now  one,  then  another.  One  is  all  scarlet 
and  white,  the  other  a  "pansy  blanket,"  which  is 
quite  a  new  idea  to  me.  The  stripes  are  in  the  pansy 
colors,  purple,  white,  and  gold,  with  a  lovely  cluster 
border  in  shaded  purples. 

Now  that  the  evenings  are  growing  longer,  and  we 
cannot  play  croquet  after  tea,  and  it  is  often  too  chilly 
to  sit  in  the  soft,  gradual  gloaming,  so  lovely  in  these 
northern  latitudes,  on  the  piazza,  playing  verbal 


Mrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  39 

games,  as  we  used  to  last  month,  —  proverbs,  compara 
tive  and  superlative,  buried  cities,  and  the  like,  —  we 
gather  round  the  long  table  in  the  dining-room  and 
its  two  bright  lamps,  with  our  work,  some  one  giving 
us  scraps  of  news,  and  funny  bits  from  the  news 
papers,  freshly  arrived  by  the  evening  mail.  The 
advent  of  the  mail  at  sunset  is  the  great  event  of  the 

day.     Mrs. says  we  ought  to  have  an  artist  here 

to  make  a  sketch,  "  Waiting  for  the  Mail."  When 
nobody  happens  to  drive  down  to  the  village,  it  is 
brought  up  by  the  postmaster  of  the  Center,  who  is 
likewise  the  butcher,  and  rejoices  in  the  inappropriate 
name  of  Shepherd.  This  double  functionary  is  apt 
to  linger  by  the  way,  Mr.  Whitney  says,  until  he  has 
sold  his  last  shin ;  so  he  is  often  anxiously  watched 
for  ever  so  long  before  one  or  two  pairs  of  sharp  and 
eager  eyes  have  spied  out  his  slow-paced  horse  cross 
ing  the  bridge  a  mile  below  us. 

We  play  "  crambo "  occasionally  in  the  evening, 
after  the  mail  excitement  is  over;  and  I  have  a 
mind  to  send  you  some  specimens  of  our  perform 
ance  in,  that  line,  though  I  acknowledge  that  half 
the  spice  is  lost,  apart  from  the  inspiration  and 
excitement  of  the  moment  which  suggests  them,  and 
the  fun  of  the  reading  aloud  to  a  not  over-critical 
audience. 


40  Poets'  Homes. 

Question.  —  Hadn't  the  kittens  better  be  drowned  ? 
Word:    Gay. 

That  was  what  Sarah  said  in  the  play 

As  she  came  to  her  master,  blithe  and  gay ; 

But  her  master  was  in  a  gruesome  mood ; 

Dark,  and  jealous,  and  frowning  he  stood, 

And  ordered  her  off.     Poor  Pillicoddy  ! 

He  was  so  afraid  that  his  marriage  was  shoddy  ! 

For  his  wife's  first  husband  was  drowned  in  the 

sea ; 

Drowned  as  dead  as  a  man  could  be ; 
But  the  one  dark  drop  in  poor  Filly's  cup 
Was  the  fear  lest  he  might  some  day  turn  up. 
So  fancy  his  feelings  when  Sarah  would  say, 
With  that  air  so  jaunty,  and  blithe,  and  gay, 
Ever  returning  upon  her  round, 
—  "  Hadn't  the  kittens  better  be  drowned  ?  " 
I  am  something  like  poor  Pillicoddy, 
For  I'm  very  sure  my  verse  is  shoddy; 
And,  with  Somebody  pocketing  all  the  scraps, 
I've  a  haunting  fear  that  some  day,  perhaps, 
Among  wise  women  and  wonderful  men, 
My  wretched  rhymes  may  turn  up  again. 
They  signify  nothing  but  fury  and  sound, 
And  /  think  the  kittens  had  better  be  drowned  I 


Mrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  4\ 

Question.  —  Where  does  the  light  of  a  candle  go  to 
when  it  is  blown  out  ? 
Word :    Fly  away. 

Where  does  the  perfume  go  when  roses  fade  ? 

Where  do  the  songs  go  when  birds  fly  away  ? 
Where  does  the  day  go  when  earth  is  in  shade  ? 

Where  does  the  night  go  when  back  comes  the  day  ? 
Where  do  our  thoughts  go  when  we  are  asleep  ? 

Where  does  the  sleep  go  when  we  are  awake  ? 
Where  does  the  ripple  go  when  brooks  grow  deep  ? 

Where  does  the  music  go  when  harp-strings  break  ? 
I  suppose  when  the  birds  go,  they  take  their  songs  too, 

And  roses,  perhaps,  pack  up  all  their  perfume. 
I  can't  tell  about  them  ;  but  I'm  certain  —  ain't  you? 

That  candle-light    goes   out  in  grease-spots   and 
gloom. 

Last  year  Mrs.  Whitney's  birthday  was  celebrated 
in  grand  style  here  on  the  fifteenth  of  September. 
The  night  before,  all  the  young  people  went  out  into 
the  woods,  coming  in  laden  with  vines  and  golden-rod 
and  autumn  leaves,  glorious  branches  of  them,  and 
turned  the  house,  down  stairs,  parlor,  dining-room,  and 
hall,  into  a  perfect  bower,  so  that  when  the  Lady  of 
the  Day  stepped  from  her  room  in  the  morning,  it 


42  Poets'  Homes. 

seemed  like  walking  in  forest  glades,  she  told  me, 
laughing.  The  day  was  one  long  festivity.  Every 
one  appeared  in  the  fullest  dress  they  could  muster 
at  dinner  —  ladies  in  long-trained  silks,  gentlemen  in 
dress  coats,  with  button-hole  bouquets.  There  was  a 
stunning  chicken-pie  by  way  of  center-piece,  decorated 
with  a  gorgeous  silken  banner,  both  pie  and  banner 
the  work  of  her  "own  girl's"  clever  fingers.  There 
were  speeches  made  and  healths  drunk,  and  when  the 
elaborate  dessert  was  served,  somebody  mounted  a 
chair,  and  read  a  flaming  ode  written  for  the  occasion, 
on  what  seemed  miles  of  legal  cap,  tied  up  with  end 
less  streamers  of  green  and  yellow  —  why  green  and 
yellow,  is  not  evident.  A  full-dress  croquet  party 
finished  up  the  grand  event  of  the  season. 

I  have  a  sketch  to  send  you  of  the  dear  old  house 
at  Milton  where  Mrs.  Whitney  lived  for  many  years, 
and  where  her  children  all  grew  up.  It  is  a  sweet, 
sunny  place,  midway  between  the  Mill  village  and 
the  Center;  and  the  pleasant  south  windows  look 
away  to  Blue  Hills,  which  bound  the  horizon.  It  is 
a  brown,  double  house,  with  an  L  and  veranda  at 
the  back,  a  broad  piazza  in  front,  with  woodbine 
climbing  luxuriantly  around  its  pillars  and  up  the 
side  of  the  house,  —  a  root  of  woodbine  which  her 
little  children  brought  from  Milton  woods  years  ago 


Mrs.  A.  D.   T.    Whitney.  43 

and  planted  here.  Roses  grow  about  the  place  in 
summer,  and  the  turf  is  very  green. 

Gnarled  old  apple  trees  and  dwarf  pears  abound  at 
the  back,  and  plenty  of  singing-birds  have  their  habi 
tation  among  the  branches,  and  in  the  bird  houses, 
which  are  perched  high  up  above  the  tree-tops  for 
their  accommodation.  Lovely  old  elms  give  the  place 
a  name  —  "Elm  Corner;"  and  I  will  just  whisper  a 
secret  to  you,  Edith :  that  quaint  old  house,  across 
the  road,  is  where  "  Faith  Gartney  "  used  to  live. 

"  Faith  Gartney  "  was  her  first  story,  you  remember, 
although  "  Mother  Goose  for  Grown  P'olks  "  was  the 
first  published  book ;  and  "  Elm  Corner  "  is  really  the 
home  of  "We  Girls."  If  you  go  through  the  wide 
hall  with  its  brown  furnishings,  into  the  brown  and 
green  sitting-room  to  the  right,  the  ivy  and  vines  in 
the  windows,  with  their  deep  cushioned  seats,  you 
will  surely  expect  to  see  "  Barbara,"  and  "  Rosamond," 
and  "  Ruth  "  come  in  from  the  kitchen  way,  or  seated 
at  the  round  table,  or  tending  their  plants.  You  will 
look  aVound  at  the  doorway  almost  sure  that  "  Leslie 
Goldthwaite  "  may  come  in  presently  for  a  visit,  or 
that  "  Stephen  Holabird  "  will  be  heard  halloing,  boy- 
fashion,  outside.  You  see  I  recall  the  house  as  I 
used  to  know  it.  When  Mrs.  Whitney  goes  back  there 
to  live  next  winter,  it  will  assume  its  old  familiar 


44  Poets'  Homes. 

aspect  again;  and  \ve  shall  all  be  glad  to  think  of 
her  in  the  dear  old  place,  where  she  seems  to  belong, 
and  where  she  makes  the  home  brightness. 

Doris  puts  her  head  in  at  my  door.  Her  shaker 
bonnet,  trimmed  with  gray,  covers  up  her  golden  hair, 
and  makes  her  look  like  a  bewitching  Quakeress. 
She  has  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  a  formidable-look 
ing  knife  in  her  hand.  "Come,"  she  says;  "we  are 
all  ready  to  go  to  the  woods  and  dig  ferns.  Haven't 
you  finished  your  letter  ? "  It  ought  to  be  finished, 
by  the  length  of  it :  so  good  by,  dear  Edith.  I'll  pro 
ceed  to  "  back  it "  now,  as  the  country  people  up  here 
say.  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  that  means. 

Always  affectionately  yours,  GARRY. 


J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

THE  home  of  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  the  poet  and  the 
story-teller,  is  a  neat  brown  wooden  house,  two 
and  a  half  stories  high,  situated  in  a  garden  of  fruit 
and  flowers,  on  Pleasant  Street,  in  Arlington,  Mass. 

Close  be-hind  it,  Arlington  Lake,  the  Spy  Pond  of 
historic  fame,  winds  like  a  broad  river  for  a  distance  of 
a  mile  or  more. 

A  drawing-room,  furnished  with  elegance  and  taste, 
occupies  the  front  half  of  the  house,  behind  which  a 
large  dining-room  overlooks  the  pond.  From  the  east 
window*  in  the  upper  hall,  Bunker  Hill  monument  and 
the  city  of  Charlestown  can  be  seen,  with  a  glimpse  of 
old  Boston  itself.  From  the  south-east  window  of  the 
study,  Mount  Auburn,  the  city  of  the  dead,  Cambridge 
observatory,  surmounted  by  the  hills  of  Brighton  and 
Brookline,  form  an  interesting  prospect.  Arlington 
Lake,  which  can  be  seen  from  all  the  windows  on  the 

45 


46  Poetf  Homes, 

sides  and  rear  of  the  house,  affords  a  scene  of  ever- 
changing  variety.  A  large  boat-house  belonging  to 
the  yacht-club  adjoins  the  grounds  of  Mr.  Trowbridge, 
who  is  a  prominent  member  of  the  association.  Many 
regattas  and  rowing  races  start  from  this  house,  the 
upper  half  of  which  is  fitted  with  balconies  where  la 
dies  can  sit  under  shady  awnings  to  encourage  the 
gentlemen  contestants  with  their  presence. 

In  the  winter  the  scene  is  also  busy  and  animated, 
for  the  lake  at  the  time  of  the  ice-harvest  is  covered 
with  the  workmen  of  Gage  &  Co.,  who  employ  hun 
dreds  of  men  to  fill  the  enormous  store-houses  on 
the  eastern  bank  with  the  ice  that  supplies  distant 
southern  countries  as  well  as  the  neighboring  cities 
with  its  cool  comfort. 

Around  this  pond,  close  to  the  shore,  is  a  narrow 
path,  a  fayorite  walk  of  Mr.  Trowbridge ;  a  shady 
lane  which  bounds  his  garden  on  the  east  leads 
directly  to  this  path.  At  the  highest  point  of  the 
lane  three  chesnuts  and  an  oak-tree  stand  close  to 
gether,  in  which  pleasant  nook  he  has  built  a  rustic 
seat  where  one  may  sit  for  meditation,  screened  from 
observation  by  the  thick  foliage. 

His  in-door  study  has  many  memorials  of  literary 
friends,  many  books  presented  by  the  authors  with 
pleasant  complimentary  sentiments  written  within, 


jf.   T.  Trowbridge.  47 

"his  room  is  situated  on  the  second  floor  in  the  west- 
rn  side  of  the  house,  with  windows  overlooking  Pleas- 
nt  Street  and  the  views  already  described. 

One  side  of  the  room  is  lined  with  books ;  on  the 
pposite  is  a  comfortable  sofa.  In  the  corner  stands 
.is  desk ;  from  its  top  books  also  occupy  the  space 
D  the  ceiling. 

It  was  in  this  delightful  room  that  all  his  well-known 
cries  of  juvenile  books  were  written,  which  have  be- 
ome  as  "familiar  as  household  words"  from  Maine 
o  California,  as  well  as  in  England,  where  they  have 
>een  widely  circulated.  They  were  begun  in  Out 
Young  Folks'  Magazine,  and  concluded  in  the  St. 
Nicholas,  in  the  following  order :  "  Jack  Hazard  and 
us  Fortunes,"  "  A  Chance  for  Himself,"  "  Doing  his 
iest,"  "The  Young  Surveyor."  "Laurence's  Ad- 
'entures  Among  the  Ice-Cutters,  Iron-Workers,  Glass- 
vlakers  and  Ship-Builders,"  was  also  written  here,  to 
gether  with  his  irresistible  story  of  "  Coupon  Bonds," 
me  of  the  best  specimens  of  Yankee  dialect  ever 
vritten.  The  story  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
or  1865,  and  has  rare  dramatic  merit,  as  a  version 
)f  it,  arranged  by  the  writer  of  this  article  for  the 
nimic  stage,  has  earned  many  hundred  dollars  for 
charitable  purposes,  and  has  been  received  with  shouts 
if  laughter.  The  stories  which  are  now  collected  i.i 


4o  Poets'  Homes. 

a  volume  with  "  Coupon  Bonds  "  were  also  written 
at  this  desk. 

His  "  Father  Brighthopes  "  was  the  earliest  of  his 
works,  and  is  still  a  favorite  with  young  and  old. 
"  Neighbor  Jackwood  "  is  a  novel  partly  in  the  Yan 
kee  dialect  also,  and  has  had  a  very  successful  ca 
reer,  being  prepared  by  its  author  for  the  stage, 
where  it  is  still  very  successful.  This  novel  was 
written  in  Paris,  where  the  author  experienced  the 
curious  sensation  of  spending  his  evenings  among  the 
fascinations  of  the  gay  capital,  and  his  mornings  with 
the  New  England  family  of  the  Jackwoods,  which 
seemed  as  real  as  the  former  to  his  vivid  imagination. 

His  war-novels  were  "  Cudjo's  Cave,"  "  The  Three 
Scouts,"  and  the  "Drummer  Boy."  He  also  pre 
pared  an  illustrated  work  on  the  South,  through  which 
he  traveled  immediately  after  the  close  of  the  war. 
He  is  now  preparing  a  series  of  illustrated  poems  for 
a  famous  New  York  publisher.  He  has  already  is 
sued  two  volumes  of  verse.  His  poem  of  "The 
Vagabonds  "  has  enjoyed  great  popularity,  and  is,  per 
haps,  oftener  read  by  elocutionists  than  any  Ameri 
can  production;  his  "Charcoal  Man"  and  "Darius 
Green  and  his  Flying  Machine "  are  also  'favorites 
These  poems,  with  others,  have  been  read  by  himself 
several  times  in  lecture  courses. 


y.   T.  Trowbridge.  49 

Our  Young  Folks  Magazine  was  started  in  1865  by 
Ticknor  and  Fields,  under  the  editorial  charge  of 
loward  M.  Ticknor,  with  Mr.  Trowbridge  as  corre- 
.ponding  editor.  In  1870  he  became  managing  editor, 
ind  gathered  about  him  a  staff  of  gifted  writers  which, 
nade  the  magazine  popular  with  young  and  old,  his 
>wn  serial  stories  being  eagerly  read  by  the  parents 
is  well  as  their  children.  His  sanctum  was  then  in 
Fremont  Street,  over  Fields  &  Osgoods'  store,  a 
.mall  front  room  with  handsome  furniture  and  carpet, 
tfith  a  bright  coal  fire  in  winter,  where  many  a  writer 
)f  note  could  be  met  any  fine  morning,  enjoying  the 
:ourteous  hospitality  and  wise  counsel  of  the  editor. 

When  engaged  upon  a  prose  work,  Mr.  Trowbridge 
jpends  every  morning  at  his  desk ;  but  his  poems  are 
written  whenever  the  inspiration  comes.  Many  ideas 
occur  to  him  in  the  long  walks  to  which  he  devotes 
many  of  his  afternoons. 

A  few  winters  ago  he  was  passing  the  head  of  Mys 
tic  Pond,  and  saw  a  group  of  men  gathered  on  the 
shore,  watching  a  boy  whose  head  was  just  visible  as 
he  struggled  in  the  icy  water.  He  seized  a  board 
from  the  .fence,  which  he  broke  into  two  pieces,  each 
about  seven  feet  long.  With  one  foot  upon  each  he 
pushed  out  over  the  cracking  ice,  against  the  warnings 
of  the  men  until  he  reached  the  boy,  who  was  just 


50  Poets'  Homes. 

sinking.  The  ice  gave  way  with  the  added  weight,  but 
he  succeeded  with  great  difficulty  in  pushing  the  half- 
frozen  boy  on  one  of  the  boards,  and  then  scrambled 
out  himself,  wet  and  chilled  to  the  bone.  For  this  he 
roic  act  he  received  the  medal  of  the  Humane  Society 
for  having  saved  a  life. .  This  incident  is  here  cited, 
against  his  wish,  to  show  that  a  poetic  talent  and  taste 
is  not  incompatible  with  energy,  courage,  and  practical 
use  of  them. 

His  son,  twelve  years  old,  is  taught  to  row  and 
swim,  and  seems  a  model  of  health  and  activity ;  and 
his  daughter,  a  little,  golden-haired  fairy  about  two 
years  old,  is  a  little  gleam  of  sunlight  in  the  home. 

In  his  best  stories  the  author  delights  in  country 
scenes,  and  his  best  interiors  are  those  of  rural  farm 
houses.  This  taste  he  seems  to  have  come  by  natu 
rally,  foi  his  father  was  brought  up  on  a  farm  in  West 
moreland,  N.  Y.,  by  John  Townsend,  for  whom  his  son 
was  named.  In  1811  the  father  set  out  with  his 
household  goods  in  an  ox-sled  ;  he  crossed  the  Gen- 
essee  River,  where  Rochester  now  stands,  where  there 
was  then  but  one  house,  and  settled  at  Ogden,  eight 
miles  farther  west,  building  a  log  house,  in  which  the 
hero  of  this  sketch  was  born,  on  the  i7th  of  Septem 
ber,  1827,  the  youngest  but  one  of  a  family  of  nine 
children. 


y.  T.  Trowbridge.  51 

His  father  was  a  fine  singer,  and  a  capital  story- 
eller,  with  a  faculty  for  rhyming  his  narratives  as  fast 
.s  composed.  He  died  when  John  was  sixteen  years 
)ld.  The  son  had  led  the  usual  life  of  a  farmer's  boy, 
;oing  to  school  about  one  half  of  the  year  and  work- 
ng  hard  the  rest  of  the  time  ;  but  his  heart  was  not 
n  his  work  ;  his  longing  for  an  education  was  among 
lis  earliest  recollections,  and  he  used  to  compose  long 
Doems  while  following  the  plough,  which  he  would 
vrite  down  by  candle-light,  in  the  chimney-corner. 
At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  studied  French  and  Ger 
man  from  books  alone,  without  the  assistance  of  any 
one  who  understood  the  written  language.  His  favor 
ite  authors  at  that  time  were  Byron  and  Scott. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  having  had  one  term  in  a 
classical  school  at  Lockport,  he  went  to  Illinois, 
where  he  read  Virgil,  and  attempted  the  cultivation  of 
wheat.  In  this  venture  he  was  not  successful,  partly 
because  he  devoted  more  time  to  hunting  and  study 
than  to  agriculture.  At  any  rate,  he  became  con 
vinced  that  his  genius  did  not  run  in  that  direction, 
and  therefore  gave  up  all  idea  of  becoming  a  farmer, 
and  determined  upon  a  literary  career  in  spite  of  all 
discouragem  ents. 

.  Returning  to  Lockport  he  taught  school  one  winter, 
and  perhaps  at  this  place  acquired  his  knowledge  of 


52  Poets'  Homes, 

the  workings  of  the  canal-system,  which  he  has  since 
made  such  an  interesting  feature  of  two  of  his  books. 
The  next  May  he  set  out  for  New  York,  alone  and 
friendless,  without  a  letter  of  introduction  or  recom 
mendation  of  any  sort,  and  with  a  scanty  sum  of 
money,  determined  to  earn  his  living  by  his  pen,  the 
hardest  way  of  earning  money  in  the  world,  even  to 
those  who  have  both  money  and  influence. 

How  his  sensitive  nature  must  have  been  shocked, 
and  even  his  brave  heart  have  sunk,  before  the  treat 
ment  of  many  of  the  self-styled  literary  men  of  the 
time !  While  in  his  country  home  he  had  won  some 
local  fame,  and  his  poems  and  stories  had  been  pub 
lished  in  the  local  papers,  but  had  brought  him  no 
pecuniary  reward  excepting  in  one  case.  He  suc 
ceeded  in  winning  the  prize  offered  for  the  best  New 
Year's  Address,  by  the  carriers  of  the  Lockport 
paper;  but  on  calling  for  the  promised  reward,  abook 
worth  about  three  dollars,  he  was  told  that  they  could 
not  afford  to  give  so  much,  and  so  they  compromised 
the  matter  by  paying  him  $1.50  ! 

After  many  weary  journeys  to  the  upper  stories, 
where  the  paper  autocrats  ruled,  he  at  last  found  a 
friend  in  Major  Noah,  of  whose  kindness  and  encour 
agement  he  speaks  in  the  highest  terms.  He  also 
discovered  the  opposite  in  another  well-known  editor 


J.   T.  Trowbridge.  53 

/ho  published  a  story  which  the  struggling  author 
entured  to  send  him.  As  this  article  was  widely 
opied,  he  modestly  asked  for  his  payment,  but  was 
iformed  that  unknown  authors  were  never  paid  for 
heir  work.  This  treatment  did  not  discourage  him, 
1  though  his  scanty  stock  of  money  was  exhausted, 
nd  he  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  an  attic. 

At  last  he  found  a  poor  market  for  his  literary 
/ares  in  the  Dollar  Magazine,  so  called  from  the 
irice  of  its  subscription,  and  because  it  paid  its  au- 
hors  at  the  same  rate  per  page.  Even  this  munificent 
iayment  would  not  suffice  for  his  maintenance  in  New 
,'ork,  and  for  a  short  time  he  laid  down  the  pen  to 
ndertake  the  engraving  of  gold  pencil-cases  at  Jersey 
Aty.  Not  succeeding  very  well  at  this  business,  he 
btained  board  with  a  French  family,  partly  for  econ- 
my  and  more  for  the  sake  of  learning  to  speak  the 
inguage. 

About  the  year  1849  ne  Pa^  a  visit  to  Boston,  where 
ie  decided  to  remain,  as  he  found  the  atmosphere 
iiore  congenial  to  his  literary  taste.  Under  the  nom 
'e  plume  of  "  Paul  Creyton  "  he  published  many  arti- 
les  and  one  novel.  He  also  was  editor  in  charge  of 
he  Sentinel,  while  its  chief  was  in  Washington,  in 
vhich  he  published  an  article  on  the  Fugitive  Slave 
^aw,  which  offended  many  subscribers  in  the  South, 
joon  after  he  published  "Father  Brighthopes,"  the 


«,4  Poets'  Homes. 

great  success  of  which  warranted  the  publication  of 
the  "  Brighthope  Series,"  in  four  volumes. 

In  the  month  of  April,  1855,  he  went  to  Europe, 
where  he  spent  a  year,  chiefly  in  England,. France  and 
Italy.  He  was  one  of  the  original  contributors  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  furnishing  for  its  pages  poems,  sto 
ries,  and  essays  of  political  and  public  interest,  which 
have  been  very  popular,  arid  many  of  which  have 
been  collected  into  volumes. 

The  young  people  who  read  this  sketch  must  judge 
for  themselves  from  what  portion  of  his  varied  expe 
rience  Mr.  Trowbridge  has  gathered  the  natural  inci 
dents  which  make  his  stories  seem  so  real.  While 
hunting  deer  in  the  wilds  of  Illinois  he  may  have 
found  a  study  of  "  Lord  Betterson  "  in  his  shingle 
palace.  In  his  hard  farm-work  he  may  have  met 
"Jack  Hazard,"  and  "Squire  Peternot,"  and  the 
inimitable  "  Ducklow  "  family.  "  George  Green 
wood's  "  struggles  in  New  York,  among  the  editors, 
may  have  recalled  the  days  of  his  own  poverty  and  of 
the  time  when,  penniless  and  friendless,  he  never  lost 
hope,  and  was  too  proud  to  send  home  for  help. 

They  can  learn  a  lesson  of  cheerfulness  under  pri 
vation  from  his  career,  and  of  steady  devotion  to  one 
idea  which  will  sooner  or  later  bear  the  brave  worker 
to  certain  success. 

One  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Trowbridge  is  his  close  and 


J.   T.  Trowbridge.  55 

linute  observation  of  even  the  smallest  details  of  out- 
oor  scenery  in  his  long  rambles.  Every  stone  has 
>r  him  its  sermon,  and  every  brook  its  open  book, 
.s  an  elocutionist  he  avoids  the  extravagant  changes 
f  tone  with  which  so  many  readers  mar  their  selec- 
ons,  and  he  reads  with  quiet  simplicity  of  manner 
hich  lends  earnestness  and  force  to  every  expression, 
.s  an  editor  Mr.  Trowbridge  was  always  courteous, 
nd  skillful  to  detect  a  pearl  even  in  its  rough  shell, 
lis  kind  advice  and  assistance  have  helped  many  a 
ashful  genius  up  the  slippery  path  of  fame,  and  his 
enial  hospitality  and  cordial  welcome  make  all 
appy  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  visit  him  in  his 
ome. 


MR.  J.  J.  PI  ATT. 
MRS.  S.  M.  B.  PIATT. 

THE  home  of  these  wedded  poets  is  not  in  the 
East,  where  our  singers  have  congregated,  but 
in  a  romantic  and  historic  section  of  that  region 
which  our  parents  used  to  call  "  out  West : "  at  the 
present  time,  to  the  larger  number  of  Americans,  Ohio 
is  in  "  the  East." 

North  Bend,  the  town  of  the  poets'  residence,  is 
one  of  the  chief  historic  points  in  the  West.  One 
instantly  remembers  that  it  was  the  home  of  President 
Harrison,  and  that  it  is  his  burial-place.  His  tomb 
lies  only  about  four  hundred  yards  to  the  eastward  of 
the  Piatt  house.  To  this  tomb,  a  low,  whited,  brick 
structure  among  the  cedars,  Mrs.  Piatt  refers  in  that 
exquisite  child-poem, 

56 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  57 

A  PRESIDENT  AT  HOME. 

I  pass'd  a  President's  house  to-day  — 
"  A  President,  mamma,  and  what  is  that  ?  * 

Oh,  it  is  a  man  who  has  to  stay 

Where  bowing  beggars  hold  out  the  hat 

For  something  —  a  man  who  has  to  be 

The  Captain  of  every  ship  that  we 

Send  with  our  darling  flag  to  the  sea  — 

The  Colonel  at  home  who  has  to  command 

Each  marching  regiment  in  the  land. 

This  President  now  has  a  single  room, 
That  is  low,  and  not  much  lighted,  I  fear ; 

Yet  the  butterflies  play  in  the  sun  and  gloom 
Of  his  evergreen  avenue,  year  by  year  ; 

And  the  child-like  violets  up  the  hill 

Climb,  faintly  wayward,  about  him  still ; 

And  the  bees  blow  by  at  the  wind's  wide  will ; 

And  the  cruel  river,  that  drowns  men  so, 
.     Looks  pretty  enough  in  the  shadows  below. 

Just  one  little  fellow  (named  Robin)  was  there, 
In  a  red  spring  vest ;  and  he  let  me  pass 

With  that  charming,  careless,  high-bred  air 
Which  comes  of  serving  the  great     In  the  grass 

He  sat,  half-singing,  with  nothing  to  do  — 

No,  I  did  not  see  the  President  too  : 

His  door  was  lock'd  (what  I  say  is  true). 

And  he  was  asleep,  and  has  been,  it  appears, 

Like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  asleep  for  years  ! 

It  occupies  the  top  of  a  lonely  ridge  which  has 
been  before  this,  in  some  dim,  pre-historic  age,  a 
place  of  burial,  being  what  is  called  an  "  Indian 
mound."  Not  a  few  of  the  neighboring  hills  are 


eg  Poets'  Homes. 

crowned  with  these  "  old  pathetic  additions."  Indeed, 
a  few  miles  westward  from  the  Piatt  cottage,  near  the 
mouth  of  the  Great  Miami,  is  one  of  the  most  exten 
sive  works  of  the  mound-builders  in  the  wide  West. 
They  are  known  as  the  Fort  Hill  Embankments. 


PRESIDENT  HARRISON'S  TOMB. 

Gen.  Harrison  believed  them  to  have  been  used  for 
military  purposes,  and  he  thought  that  they  indicated 
superior  engineering  skill  and  knowledge.  They  en 
close  eight  or  ten  acres,  and  are  not  yet  obliterated. 
The  pioneers  of  south-eastern  Ohio  found  these  em 
bankments  overgrown  with  old  forests. 

Nearly  half  a  mile  farther  from  the  cottage  than 
the  Harrison  tomb,  and  beyond  it,  stand  some  old, 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  59 

tomantic  ruins  of  the  stone  mill  which  Gen.  Harrison 
built  nearly  sixty  years  ago,  before  he  went  as  Minis 
ter  to  Columbia,  South  America.  It  is  situated  in  a 
deep,  lonely  hollow  among  the  hills,  upon  a  little 
stream  known  as  Indian  Creek. 

A  few  hundred  yards  eastward  from  the  tomb,  be 
tween  the  hills  and  the  Ohio  River,  is  the  site  of  the 
North  Bend  mansion,  so  famous  thirty-five  years  ago 
as  the  "  Log  Cabin  "  celebrated  in  the  grand  Whig 
campaign  which  resulted  in  the  election  of  Gen.  Har 
rison  to  the  Presidency.  The  house  was,  perhaps, 
partly  built  of  logs  ;  they  were  weather-boarded  over, 
however.  This  historic  building  was  destroyed  by 
fire  about  twenty  years  ago.  Only  a  few  old  orchard 
trees,  including  some  venerable  pear-trees,  all  of  them 
beautiful  in  blossom  but  poor  in  fruit,  together  with  a 
small  brick  office-building,  remain  to  indicate  the 
famous  old  homestead  which,  not  many  years  since, 
was  cut  up  into  small  lots  and  sold  at  public  auction. 

The  Piatt  house  itself  is  built  at  the  centre  of  many 
beautiful  landscapes,  the  Ohio  River  being  the  com 
manding  feature.  The  cottage  stands  on  the  river- 
line  of  hills,  on  the  northern  (Ohio)  side,  nearly  three 
hundred  feet  above  the  river-level.  Every  window  of 
the  house  gives  charming  river-views  —  the  Ohio 
southeast  and  southwest,  the  Great  Miami  to  the 


60  Poets'  Homes. 

northward,  while  from  the  heights  above  the  house 
there  is  a  lovely  glimpse  of  the  meeting  of  the  White 
water  with  the  Miami,  reminding  one  of  Tom  Moore's 
song  of  "  the  Vale  of  Avoca  where  the  bright  waters 
meet."  These  gay,  sunny  waters  encircle  in  their 
gleaming  arms  the  most  green  and  fertile  of  valleys. 
In  summer  the  whole  country  below  the  dark  wooded 
heights  seems  one  vast,  unbroken,  level  corn-field. 
Across  the  Ohio  to  the  southward  there  are  also  some 
delightful  Kentucky  views  —  rich  and  extensive  bot 
tom  lands,  with  farm-houses,  orchards,  pastures,  wheat- 
fields  and  corn-fields,  bounded  by  a  line  of  wooded 
hills,  so  that  the  scene  from  the  upper  windows  is  a 
delightful  mingling  of  the  idyllic  and  the  romantic. 
Evening  adds  still  another  fascinating  feature  to  the 
landscape.  The  Ohio  &  Mississippi  R.  R.  passes 
along  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  front,  while  the  Indianap 
olis  Road  winds  around  the  curved  river-bank  from 
above;  and  at  night  the  head-lights  of  the  locomo 
tives  come  flaming  toward  the  house,  three  or  four 
miles  away,  in  each  direction ;  and  the  whole  rocky 
hill  on  which  the  cottage  is  built  is  often  jarred  with 
the  long  freight-trains. 

The  Piatt  place  has  been  largely  left  to  be  the  wild 
and  romantic  pleasure-ground  which  Nature  long  and 
lovingly  kept  in  waiting  for  the  present  master  and 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  61 

mistress.  The  frontage  of  their  little  pleasure-ground 
(two  acres  in  extent)  is  covered  with  forest-trees,  and 
slopes  down  a  steep  hill  to  the  river.  Sitting  on  the 
porch  you  look  down  through  the  trees,  almost  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  into  the  river.  Four  strik 
ing  poplar  trees,  interposing  their  glimmering,  shim 
mering  leaves  between  one  of  the  windows  and  a  fine 
water-view,  seem  to  name  the  place,  "  The  Four  Pop 
lars  ; "  but  there  are  those  who  insist  upon  calling  it 
"The  Thrushes'  Nest,"  which,  as  Mr.  Piatt  says,  "is 
very  pretty,  of  course,  but  hardly  modest  enough  for 
any  of  the  tenants  of  the  Nest."  Since  the  porch  is 
but  twenty  feet  back  from  the  steep  hillside,  "  River- 
brow  "  seems  the  happiest  of  all  the  suggested  names, 
though,  perhaps,  as  Mr.  Piatt  has  further  remarked, 
"the  designation  of  a  new  series  of  anonymous 
novels,  "  No  Name,"  might  be  a  happier  one." 

The  cottage  is  of  wood,  a  story  and  a  half  in  height, 
with  French  windows  in  the  ends,  and  in  front  above. 
It  has  a  broad  porch  along  the  front.  The  interior  is 
furnished  largely,  as  one  would  expect,  with  books. 
Either  on  table  or  shelf,  no  room  misses  its  share. 
They  take  no  particular  direction ;  there  is  poem, 
novel,  essay,  history. 

Should  you  chance  to  stroll  into  the  parlor,  you 
will  find  a  neat  and  pleasant  room,  with  "  Marian's  " 


6a  Poets'  Homes. 

piano  against  the  wall —  "Marian"  is  the  heroine  of 
"The  Sad  Story  of  a  Little  Girl,"  in  WIDE  AWAKE. 
who 

"  Beats  the  piano  out  of  tune, 
And — wants  to  sleep  till  noon." 

There  is,  on  the  wall  over  the  mantel,  a  portrait  in 
oil  of  Mrs.  Piatt,  painted  by  Theodore  Kaufmarm,  an 
old  German  historical  painter  who  lives  in  Washing 
ton.  This  is  fine,  as  a  work  of  art,  but  hardly  a  good 
or  pleasant  portrait,  being  ten  years  older  in  looks 
than  its  original,  and  having  very  little  of  the  tender 
ness,  playfulness  and  sweetness  of  her  expression, 
although  it  has  her  delicate  features,  her  brow,  her 
dark  eyes.  A  little  bust  of  Longfellow  stands  on  a 
bracket  between  the  long  front  windows ;  and  over 
this  hangs  an  engraving  of  Ary  Schaeffer's  "  Hebe." 

Hanging  among  the  engravings  and  photographs, 
is  a  framed  autograph  letter  from  Charles  Dickens 
to  Mr.  Piatt,  written  a  few  days  before  the  death  of 
the  English  novelist ;  there  is,  too,  a  framed  portrait- 
engraving  of,  and  autograph  inscription  by,  Fitz 
Greene  Halleck  (the  inscription  written  originally  to 
be  placed  in  a  copy  of  his  poems  sent  to  Mrs.  Piatt 
some  years  before  her  marriage) ;  and  near  them  is 
a  portrait  of  Christina  Rossetti  (whose  poems  Mr. 
Piatt  admires  very  much),  with  an  autograph  of  that 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  63 

remarkable  English  poetess.  Upon  the  tables  are 
the  handsome  holiday  books  of  the  time  ;  and  doubt 
less,  if  you  would  care  to  explore  one  or  two  scrap- 
books,  you  would  find  an  accumulation  of  autograph 
letters  from  many  interesting  people,  which  are,  of 
course,  chiefly  for  private  reading. 

In  the  little  hall,  I  may  mention,  this  being  Cen 
tennial  year,  that  there  is  a  certificate  of  membership 
in  the  "  Society  of  the  Cincinnati,"  signed  by  George 
Washington,  issued  to  Mr.  Piatt's  great-grandfather, 
who  was  an  original  member  of  that  Order,  of  which 
Mr.  Piatt's  father,  yet  Hving,  is  an  hereditary  member. 

What  more  ?  There  is  a  noisy  company  of  little 
people  about  the  house  in  all  directions  —  Marian,  a 
tall,  dark-eyed  little  maid  of  fourteen,  is  the  eldest 
of  the  flock.  There  is  Bonn,  Fred,  Guy,  and  there  is 
the  baby,  one  year  old,  a  bright-faced,  bright-haired, 
blue-eyed,  gay,  mischievous  anonymous,  for  he  has 
no  assured  name,  although  it  is  presumed  to  be  Louis, 
with  Charles  before  it. 

The  mistress  of  the  cottage  is  a  native  of  Ken 
tucky,  born  near  Lexington.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Sallie  M.  Bryan  (Sarah  Morgan  Bryan).  Her  grand 
father,  Morgan  Bryan,  was  one  of  several  brothers 
who  came  into  Kentucky  with  Daniel  Boone  (Boone's 
wife  was  named  Rebecca  Bryan)  from  North  Carolina, 


64  Poets'  Homes. 

Mrs.  Piatt's  early  childhood  was  passed  near  Ver 
sailles,  Kentucky,  where  her  mother,  a  lovely  and  beau 
tiful  woman,  died  in  her  own  youth,  leaving  her  eldest 
child,  Sarah,  only  eight  years  old.  The  loss  of  her 
mother,  with  various  consequent  influences,  lent  to  a 
very  delicate  and  sensitive  nature  a  hue  of  sadness 
not  easy  to  outgrow.  •  "  The  Black  Princess,"  in  "  A 
Voyage  to  the  Fortunate  Isles,"  quoted  by  Mr. 
Whittier  in  his  "  Songs  of  Three  Centuries,"  was  a 
slave-woman  belonging  to  her  grandmother,  and  was 
not  only  her  own  nurse,  but  her  mother's  also, — 
the  feeling  in  the  poem  is  real  and  genuine. 

Later,  she  and  a  younger  sister  were  placed  by  their 
father  with  an  aunt,  a  good  and  venerable  lady  still 
living,  Mrs.  Boone,  a  niece  by  marriage  of  Daniel 
Boone,  at  New  Castle,  Henry  Co.,  Kentucky.  Here 
she  went  to  school,  and  was  graduated  at  the  Henry 
Female  College,  an  institution  then  in  charge  of  a 
cousin  of  Charles  Sumner.  It  was  here  her  poetic 
temperament  first  manifested  itself.  She  had  been 
always  an  eager  reader,  and  had  especial  fondness 
for  Shelley,  Coleridge  and  Byron,  though  she  read 
Moore  and  Scott  and  others  of  their  period. 

Some  of  her  early  poems  were  shown  by  friends  to 
Mr.  George  D.  Prentice,  the  editor  of  the  Louisville 
Journal,  and  he  praised  them,  at  once  recognizing 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  65 

extraordinary  genius.  Her  early  published  poems, 
appearing  in  the  Louisville  Journal  and  New  York 
Ledger,  were  widely  read,  widely  praised,  and  were, 
perhaps,  quite  as  popular  as  her  later  and  far  superior 
work. 

It  is  since  her  marriage,  in  June,  1861,  that  her 
more  individual  characteristics  of  style  have  mani 
fested  themselves,  especially  that  dramatic  element, 
so  delicate,  subtle  and  strong,  which  asserts  Mrs. 
Piatt's  intellectual  kinship  with  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  and  with  her  Only  —  they  stand  togethei 
in  a  splendid  solitude,  the  royal  sisters. 

Mrs.  Piatt  is  slightly  above  the  medium  height  for 
a  woman,  with  a  delicate  and  rather  fragile  appear 
ance,  very  graceful  in  carriage  and  figure.  Her  head 
is  singularly  fine  in  shape  and  outline.  She  has 
dark,  tender,  hazel  eyes,  under  finely-arched  brows, 
a  small,  sensitive  and  proud  mouth,  a  straight,  well- 
shaped  nose.  Her  hair,  silk-like  in  fineness,  is  of  the 
real  auburn  hue,  brown  in  the  shadow,  golden  in  the 
sunlight. 

Although  many  things  have  touched  her  life  with 
sadness,  and  she  is  too  often  melancholy,  she  is,  after 
all,  in  her  own  house,  full  of  girlish  lightness  and 
playfulness.  Not  disliking,  but  enjoying,  society,  she 
:an  live  without  it  with  perfect  cheerfulness.  For 


66 


Poets'  Homes. 


weeks  at  a  time,  in  bad  weather,  "  Riverbrow  "  is  al 
most  inaccessible ;  but  Mrs.  Piatt  finds  ample  enter 
tainment  in  her  household,  her  household  duties,  and 
herself. 


MRS.  S.  M.  B.  PIATT. 

At  home  she  is  apparently  as  little  of  the  literary 
woman  as  it  is  possible  to  be,  and  one  might  dine  at 
the  cottage  from  one  New  Year  until  the  next  without 
suspecting  his  hostess  of  active  authorship.  She  has 
no  regular  hours  for  writing,  and  cannot  be  persuaded 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  67 

to  make  it  the  aim  and  business  of  her  life.  Her 
poems  are  written  out-of-doors  if  possible.  Her 
composition  is  rapid,  —  some  of  her  most  finished 
poems  have  been  written  at  one  sitting. 

It  is  striking  evidence  of  her  lack  of  personal 
literary  ambition,  that  every  poem  of  hers  that  has 
been  published  since  her  marriage  has  been  copied 
and  given  to  the  public  by  the  hands  of  her  husband, 
who,  most  happily  for  us,  has  had  a  good  deal  of 
ambition  for  her.  To  Mr.  Piatt  we  owe  the  pleasure 
of  her  books.  Her  own  hand  would  never  have 
collected  her  poems.  Her  first  book  was  "  The  Nests 
at  Washington,"  published  in  New  York,  in  1864,  the 
larger  part  being  Mr.  Piatt's  poems.  Her  next  volume 
was  "A  Woman's  Poems  "  (Boston,  1871).  Her  last 
book  was  "  A  Voyage  to  the  Fortunate  Isles  "  (Boston, 
1874).  A  new  volume  is  in  preparation. 

Her  daily  life  is  devoted,  patiently  and  happily,  to 
her  household  cares,  and  to  her  children.  As  a 
Southerner,  before  her  marriage,  her  people  having 
been  slave-holders,  she  had  slight  experience  in  do 
mestic  matters,  and  none  of  the  training  which  falls  to 
the  lot  of  Northern  women.  But  with  all  her  cares 
she  has  taught  her  children  to  read  and  write,  and 
has  instructed  them  largely  in  all  their  early  lessons. 
Her  many  poems  referring  to  children  have  been 


68  Poets'  Homes. 

nearly  always  suggested  by  real  children,  —  their 
genuine  questions  and  remarks  are  often  given  nearly 
word  for  word. 

Happy  with  her  "  foolish  yellow-heads  "  —  the  five, 
Marian,  Donn,  Fred,  Guy  and  baby  —  there  is  still  a 
sob,  suddenly,  in  nearly  all  the  poems.  I  think  the 
Rachel-sorrow  never  found  such  powerful  expression 
elsewhere.  There  are  graves  of  her  own  on  "  the 
beautiful  burial  hill,"  —  two.  Here  the  mother  count : 

"  I  low  many  graves  are  in  this  world  ? "     "  Oh,  child," 
His  mother  answered,  "surely  there  are  two." 

Archly  he  shook  his  pretty  head  and  smiled  : 
"  I  mean  in  this  whole  world,  you  know  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  in  this  whole  world  :  in  east  and  west, 
In  north  and  south,  in  dew  and  sand  and  snow, 

In  all  sad  places  where  the  dead  may  rest : 
There  are  two  graves  —  yes,  there  are  two,  I  know." 

"  But  graves  have  been  here  for  a  thousand  years,  — 
Or,  for  ten  thousand  ?     Soldiers  die,  and  kings  ; 

And  Christians  die  —  sometimes."     "My  own  poor  tears 
Have  never  yet  been  troubled  by  these  things. 

.     .     .     "  Moie  graves  within  the  hollow  ground,  in  sooth, 
Than  there  are  stars  in  all  the  pleasant  sky  ?  — 

Where  did  you  ever  learn  such  dreary  truth, 
Oh,  wiser  and  less  selfish  far  than  I  ? 

"  I  did  not  know,  —  I  who  had  light  and  breath  : 

Something  to  touch,  to  look  at,  if  no  more. 
Fair  earth  to  live  in,  who  believe  in  death, 

Till,  dumb  and  blind,  he  lies  at  their  own  door  ? 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  69 

.     .     .     "  I  did  not  know  —  I  may  have  heard  or  read  — 
Of  more  ;  but  should  I  search  the  wide  grass  through. 

Lift  every  flower  and  every  thorn,"  she  said, 
"From  every  grave  —  oh,  I  should  see  but  two  !  " 

Two  years  ago  the  family  came  home  from  a  long 
stay  in  Washington,  one  evening  in  summer,  July  3d, 
glad,  father  and  mother  and  children,  to  reach  the 
fresh,  green,  fragrant  spot,  after  a  tedious  and  dusty 
journey.  Gayest  of  all  was  the  little  eldest  son,  Victor, 
a  gentle,  lovely  boy,  especially  attached  to  his  mother. 
He  had  a  merry  day  on»  the  morrow,  "  the  Fourth." 
Just  at  dusk,  as  his  father  came  home  from  the  city, 
he  was  playing  with  some  powder  which  he  had  stored 
in  a  bottle,  when  it  exploded  —  and  the  same  in 
stant  the  little  fellow  ran  toward  them  crying  assur- 
ingly,  "  Mamma,  I  am  not  hurt  much  !  I  am  not  hurt, 
mamma ! "  But  the  next  moment  he  was  no  longer 
with  them. 

The  master  of  the  cottage  was  born  in  Dearborn 
County,  Indiana,  hardly  thirty-five  miles  away  from 
his  present  home.  At  fourteen  years  of  age  he  was 
placed  by  his  father  in  charge  of  an  uncle,  who  was 
then  publisher  of  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  at  Columbus, 
to  learn  the  printer's  trade.  At  this  time  another  and 
smaller  boy  was  there  exercising  himself  in  the  art 
and  mystery  of  types ;  this  smaller  lad  was  William 
D.  Howells.  Some  years  later  they  fell  together 


70  Poets'  Homes. 

again.  One  evening  Mr.  Piatt,  who  had  in  the  interim 
been  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  some  months,  and  had 
tried  his  wings  in  various  flights  of  verse  through  the 
Louisville  Journal,  came  into  the  editorial  rooms  of 
the  Ohio  State  Journal,  which  had  by  this  time 
passed  into  the  hands  of  new  publishers,Vor  the  pur 
pose  of  looking  for  a  copy  of  Mr.  Prentice's  paper. 

The  " smaller  boy"  of  yore  was  there,  now  one  of 
the  editors.  He  at  once  recognized  his  boyish 
friend,  and  renewed  the  acquaintance.  Mr.  Howells, 
too,  published  verses,  in  the  National  Era,  and  else 
where.  The  mutual  tastes  and  aspirations  drew  them 
together;  and,  as  a  consequence,  at  Christmas,  1859, 
there  appeared  a  modest  little  volume,  "  Poems  of 
Two  Friends." 

Mr.  Piatt  has  spent  a  goodly  share  of  his  time  in 
Washington,  having  been  appointed  to  a  place  in  the 
Treasury  Department  by  Mr.  Salmon  P.  Chase,  the 
late  Chief  Justice,  a  few  days  after  the  latter  became 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  While  in  Louisville,  he 
had  met  the  young  Kentucky  poetess,  and  now  they 
were  married,  during  Mr.  Piatt's  first  year  in  Wash 
ington.  In  that  city,  and  in  Georgetown,  they  lived 
for  some  years  during  the  war. 

In  1868  these  mated  singing-birds  fixed  their  nest 
in  the  rocky  eyrie  at  North  Bend,  Mr.  Piatt  having 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  71 

become  an  editor  of  one  of  the  Cincinnati  papers. 
In  1870,  however,  he  was  recalled  to  Washington, 
where,  as  Librarian  of  the  House  of  Representatives, 


MR.  JOHN  J.  PIATT. 


he  has  remained  during  sessions  of  Congress,  his 
family  being  with  him  several  winters.  Recently, 
owing  to  the  political  change  in  the  personale  of  the 
House,  a  new  Librarian  being  appointed,  Mr.  Piatt  is 


yz  Poets'  Homes. 

again  at  North  Bend,  and  has  resumed  journalistic 
labor. 

Personally,  Mr.  Piatt  is  one  of  the  young  modern 
men,  keen  and  clear-cut,  both  in  appearance  and 
action. 

His  poems  have  appeared  in  three  volumes,  besides 
"  Poems  of  Two  Friends."  "  Nests  at  Washington  " 
(New  York,  1864)  was  named  from  some  great  bomb 
shells  before  the  White  House,  into  whose 

.    .  __»x'~"  hollow  horror 
Flew  tenderest  summer  wings  ! 

"  Deep  in  the  awful  chambers 

Of  the  gigantic  Death, 
The  wrens  their  nests  had  builded, 
And  dwelt  with  loving  breath." 

"Western  Windows"  was  published  in  New  York  in 
1869,  and  "  Landmarks  "  in  1872. 

The  life  of  the  early  West,  of  the  pioneers,  and  the 
experiences  of  the  rude  farmer,  have  taken  a  strong 
hold  on  the  sympathies  and  the  imagination  of  Mr. 
Piatt ;  his  poems  are  set,  as  with  pictures,  with  Ohio 
valley  landscapes ;  and 

.     .    .     "  through  the  dust  of  long  ago, 

Creep  the  Pennsylvania  wagons  up  the   twilight  —  white   and 
slow." 

Many  of  them  are  finished  idyls,  and  far  more  dis- 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt.  73 

tinctively  American  than  the  "  dialect-poems  "  of  Hay 
and  Bret  Harte.  For  instance,  there  is  the  poem, 
"  Riding  to  Vote."  Translated  into  any  language,  its 
American  flavor  would  still  be  pungent  and  unmistak 
able  : 

"  In  Jackson's  days  a  gay  young  man,  with  spirit  hale  and  blithe 
And  form  like  the  young  hickory,  so  tough  and  tall  and  lithe, 
I  first  remember  coming  up  — we  came  a  wagon-load, 
A  dozen  for  Old  Hickory — this  rough  November  road." 

A  man's  thought,  expressed  with  a  woman's  grace 
and  sweetness,  is  embodied  in 

ROSE  AND  ROOT. 
A  FABLE  OF  Two  LIVES. 

The  Rose  aloft  in  sunny  air, 

Beloved  alike  by  bird  and  bee 
Takes  for  the  dark  Root  little  care 

That  toils  below  it  ceaselessly. 

I  put  my  question  to  the  flower  : 
Pride  of  the  summer,  garden  queen, 

Why  livest  thou  thy  little  hour? 

And  the  Rose  answered,  "  I  am  seen." 

I  put  my  question  to  the  Root  — 
"  I  mine  the  earth  content,"  it  said, 

"A  hidden  miner  underfoot ; 
I  know  a  Rose  is  overhead." 

Life  passes  very  pleasantly  at  "  Riverbrow,"  as  in 
Arcadia,  when  the  family  are  all  at  home  j  there  are 


74 


Poets'  Homes. 


excursions  on  the  wooded  hill-slopes,  readings  and 
picnicings  in  the  green  shade  ;  there  are  strolls  by  the 
river,  drives  through  the  valleys  of  the  Miami  and 
Whitewater;  in  good  weather  refined  and  genial 
society  is  within  reach  —  in  short,  quite  their  share 
of  earthly  happiness  has  been  vouchsafed  to  the  in 
mates  of  "  Riverbrow." 


EDGAR    FAWCETT. 


THOSE  who  know  Edgar  Fawcett  as  a  writer  for 
children  are  few  compared  with  the  larger 
.udience  that  he  addresses  through  his  novels,  tales 
aid  poems.  His  first  book,  however,  published  in 

871,  under  the  title  of  "Short  Poems  for  Short 
'eople,"  was  essentially  a  work  of  juvenile  character. 

ts  fate  was  like  that  of  most  "  first  books,"  and  the 
)bscurity  of  the  publishers  who  brought  it  out 
possibly  contributed  towards  its  non-success.  But 
since  then  Mr.  Fawcett  has  written  many  delightful 
poems  for  young  people,  and  these  he  purposes 
adding,  at  some  future  time,  to  the  "  Short  Poems  " 
already  mentioned.  There  is  little  doubt  that  this 
second  and  greatly  revised  edition  will  some  day  be 
very  popular ;  for,  during  the  past  three  years  or  so, 
Mr.  Fawcett's  graceful  naturalness,  and  fragrant 

75 


76  Poets'  Homes. 

humor,  have  won  him  scores  of  little  friends  through 
out  the  country. 

Edgar  Fawcett  was  born  in  New  York  city,  and  is 
now  in  his  thirtieth  year.     In  1867  he  graduated  from 


EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

Columbia  College,  and  has  since  then  not  only  made 
literature  his  profession,  but  has  shown  himself  one 
of  the  most  industrious  magazine-writers  of  the  day. 
Tales  and  poems  have  flowed  from  his  pen  with  great 
rapidity.  It  may  almost  be  said  that  scarcely  a  week 
passes  without  his  name  appearing  in  some  periodical 


Edgar  Fawcett.  77 

fore  the  public.  He  is  also  the  author  of  two 
ivels,  "  Purple  and  Fine  Linen,"  published  by  Carle- 
n  &  Co.  in  1873,  and  "  Ellen  Story,"  published  last 
ar  by  E.  J.  Hale  &  Son,  of  New  York.  The  last 
>ok  has  won  for  him  high  praise,  as  a  work  of  rare 
larm  and  undoubted  power. 

But  industry  and  versatility,  only  too  often,  as  we 
low,  accompany  feebleness,  or  at  least  carelessness 
:  composition.  It  is  but  justice  to  Mr.  Fawcett  to 
ty  that  everything  which  he  writes  bears  in  a  most 
riking  degree  the  marks  of  thorough  artistic  care. 
.  slip-shod  rhyme,  or  an  ill-constructed  sentence,  are 
nknown  amid  his  work.  Not  long  ago  he  showed 
ic  writer  a  letter  addressed  to  him  by  an  eminent 
American  poet,  in  which  the  following  words  occurred  : 
Whence  come  such  intellectual  power  and  constancy 
D  your  work,  that  you  are  enabled  to  compose  novels, 
rose  sketches,  long  poems  and  short,  in  so  limited  a 
>eriod  of  time  ?  And  then  the  art  of  these  pieces  is 
Iways  so  admirable  ! " 

Surely  this  is  rare  praise ;  but  those  most  familiar 
vith  Mr.  Fawcett's  writings  must  admit  it  to  be  well- 
leserved. 

In  stature  Mr.  Fawcett  is  of  medium  height,  and 
lis  figure  inclines  a  trifle  toward  stoutness.  His  face 
.s  mobile,  and  of  an  ever-varying  expressive  power. 


78  Poets'  Homes. 

In  conversation  he  is  remarkable  for  a  polished  ease, 
a  readiness  of  phrase,  and  the  occasional  play  of  a 
delicate,  fanciful  humor.  All  acknowledge  his  great 
attractiveness  of  manner,  and  to  spend  an  hour  in 
his  society  is  to  deal  afterward  in  some  very  pleasant 
intellectual  memories. 

Mr.  Fawcett  has  lived  the  life  of  cities.  He  is  a 
man  of  the  world,  in  the  fullest,  broadest  sense. 
Unlike  most  poets,  he  is  full  of  self-possession,  and 
trained  to  the  utmost  in  all  social  niceties.  The  close 
observation  of  nature  constantly  shown  in  his  poems 
would  suggest  one  who  has  lived  a  rural  life  j  but 
with  the  exception  of  passing  his  summers  at  a 
country-place,  Mr.  Fawcett  is  as  entirely  metropolitan 
in  his  general  mode  of  living  as  anyone  to  be  found 
in  the  great,  populous  city  where  he  resides. 

He  is  still  unmarried.  His  love  for  children  is 
sincere  and  profound,  and  he  possesses  a  power  of 
amusing  them  that  his  many  young  admirers  will 
readily  understand.  Especially  does  he  excel  in  the 
weaving  of  those  long,  delightful  fairy  "rigmaroles" 
in  which,  as  the  children  would  say,  "  he  makes  it  up 
as  he  goes  along."  Many  of  his  best  juvenile  poems 
have  been  published  anonymously.  We  are  tempted 
to  quote  the  following,  because  it  shows  the  author's 
exquisite  power  of  pleasing  his  little  readers  by  the 


Edgar  Fawcett.  79 

most  simple,  natural,  and  truthful  means.  A  little 
jirl,  we  should  imagine,  is  supposed  to  be  addressing 
some  farm-servant : 

THE  MURDERED  KITTENS. 

I  won't  believe  it  of  you,  John ; 

You  never,  never  could  be 
Such  an  awfully  heartless  kind  of  wretch 

It  is  very  clear  to  me  I    * 

I  saw  you  ugly  to  Bruno  once, 

And  whip  old  lame  Bobbin,  too ; 
But  drown  four  poor  little  kittens  ?    No, 

I  will  not  believe  it  of  you  ! 

Why,  John,  could  you  go  and  stand  there  now, 

And  hear  the  old  cat's  wild  cries, 
And  let  her  rub  herself  on  your  leg, 

And  lift  up  her  great,  sad  eyes  ? 

Could  you  do  all  this,  I  ask  of  you,  John 
(And  I  ask  without  one  bit  of  mirtl,), 

If  you'd  just  been  sweeping  her  family 
From  off  the  face  of  the  earth  ? 

And  haven't  you  too  much  sense  to  believe 
(Why,  the  mere  thought  makes  me  frown ! ) 

That  kittens  were  ever  created,  John, 
Just  for  cruel  people  to  drown  ? 

You  and  I  were  born  that  we  might  grow  up 

Live  our  lives  and  be  this  or  that ; 
And  in  the  same  way  is  each  kitten  meant 

To  become  a  developed  cat  I 


8o  Poets'  Homes. 

And  to  kill  one  is  simply  a  horrid  sin  1 

A  deed  most  awful  to  do  1 
So,  if  anyone  has  drowned  the  kittens,  John, 

I  cannot  believe  'twas  you  1 

Different  in  its  way,  yet  possessing  much  of  the 
author's  peculiarly  quaint  charm,  is  the  following  : 

GETTING  PHOTOGRAPHED. 

And  so  I  must  sit  in  this  chair  and  keep  still  ? 

I'll  try,  though  I'm  only  real  still  when  asleep. 
(What's  mamma  gone  away  for  ?     I've  got  quite  a  chill  ; 

Yes,  truly ;  my  flesh  is  beginning  to  creep  I 

0  gracious  1  he's  hiding  behind  that  queer  thing  I 

I  don't  know  what  name  it  has,  though  mamma  said 
Suppose  it  should  all  of  a  sudden  go  ping  ! 
And  leave  me  to  sit  here  without  any  head  I 

Dear  me,  here  he  comes  again  I )     Place  my  arm  so  ? 

Stop  creasing  my  forehead  ?  and  fix  my  eyes  there  ? 
( He  treats  me  as  if  I  were  made  out  of  dough  ! 

And  —  what  is  he  putting  against  my  back  hair  ? 

Now  he's  hiding  behind  that  queer  thing  once  again.) 
Your  behavior  is  certainly  puzzling,  dear  sir. 

1  declare,  I  consider  it  positive  pain 
Sitting  here  like  a  poker,  forbidden  to  stir. 

It  will  not  be  long,  did  you  say  ?    Can  I  wink  ? 

Very  well;  I'm  quite  ready,  and  won't  move  at  all. 
(This  man  has  the  Grossest  expression,  I  think, 

And  then,  —  am  I  sure  that  mamma's  within  call?) 


Jidgar  Fawcett.  81 

(J  my  1     Has  he  done  ?    Is  it  time  now  to  go  ? 

Getting  photographed  doesn't  take  long,  I  admit. 
Mamma,  please  don't  call  me  the  worst  goose  you  know, 

But  —  I  thought  it  would  hurt,  just  a  wee  little  bit  I 

Irresistibly  funny,  too,  are  these  lines.     How  man) 
a  child  can  recall  just  such  an  experience : 

LEARNING  TO  MILK. 

Timothy,  let  me  milk  the  cow. 

Now,  Timothy,  please  do  ! 
Of  course  you're  in  a  hurry,  sir, 

Because  I'm  asking  you. 

1  haven't  tried  in  such  an  age 

To  milk  her  —  that  you  know  ! 
Ah,  nice  old  Tim  !     I  thought  you  would ! 

How  do  you  do  it  ?    So  ? 

It  really  is  the  queerest  thing  I 

My  hands  feel  firm  and  strong, 
But  though  I  pull  the  same  as  you, 

I  always  do  it  wrong. 

I  might  explain  it,  Tim,  you  know, 

Were  all  my  fingers  thumbs. 
How  is  it  that  I  strain  and  strain, 

And  no  milk  ever  comes  ? 

Ah  I  here's  a  drop  1     Hurrah !  hurrah  I 

I'm  milking !     Don't  you  see  ? 
But  then,  why  does  she  gush  for  you, 

And  trickle,  Tim,  for  me  ? 


82  Poets'  Homes. 

Just  watch  this  little  dribbling  stream, 

So  miserably  thin ! 
I  wonder  if  she's  obstinate, 

And  likes  to  hold  it  in  ? 

Perhaps  she  won't  be  milked  by  me, 

A  mere  child,  not  thirteen. 
And  yet  I  somehow  can't  believe 

A  cow  could  act  so  mean  1 

In   marked  contrast  to  the  preceding  verses,  arc 
these  deliriously  tender  ones  : 

TWO  KINDS  OF  LOVE. 

Yes,  mamma  loves  me  with  all  her  heart, 

And  the  same  way  I  love  mamma. 
But  gracious  I  how  very  different, 

Each  from  each,  those  two  loves  are  1 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  her  love  is  like  ? 

I  think  it's  as  if  God  chose 
To  have  made  her  a  rose-bush,  large  and  green 

With  only  me  for  a  rose. 

Or  as  if  she'd  been  a  robin,  with  just 

One  birdling  to  keep  from  cold ; 
Or  a  space  of  sweet,  fresh  grass,  with  one 

Little  dandelion  of  gold. 

Or  as  if  she'd  been  a  dull,  wild  land, 

With  a  single  frail  young  tree ; 
Or  a  sky  with  a  single  star  to  hold, — 

That's  about  how  mamma  loves  me. 


Edgar  Fawcett.  83 

Fancy  now,  that  I  were  the  rose,  you  know, 

The  dandelion,  the  star, 
Or  the  nestling  bird  that  I  told  you  of, — 

And  that's  how  I  love  mamma. 


The  above  poems  are  only  taken  at  random  from 
over  a  hundred  such  that  Mr.  Fawcett  has  written 
during  the  past  few  years.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of 
their  merit.  Mr.  Fawcett  has  encountered,  among 
critical  friends,  not  a  little  opposition  to  the  idea  of 
his  writing  these  dainty  juvenile  scraps.  "  They  will 
spoil  your  reputation  as  a  poet  and  novelist,"  has 
been  more  than  once  said  to  him.  "  I  hope  not,"  he 
once  smilingly  answered ;  "  but  even  if  such  awful 
consequences  follow  I  shall  continue  my  bad  habit." 

We  hope  that  all  the  young  Wide  Awakes  agree 
with  us  in  hoping  sincerely  that  Mr.  Fawcett  wil- 
abide  by  his  excellent  resolution. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

ABOUT  half  a  mile  west  from  Harvard  Square  in 
Cambridge,  and  adjoining  on  one  side  the 
beautiful  cemetery  of  Mount  Auburn,  is  Elmwood,  the 
home  of  one  of  the  best-known  of  American  poets. 

The  approach  to  the  grounds  is  through  a  narrow 
lane  which  branches  off  on  the  left  from  the  main 
street,  —  Brattle  Street,  as  it  is  called,  on  which,  as 
you  may  chance  to  remember,  the  poet  Longfellow 
resides.  The  stately  mansion  stands  on  high  ground, 
and  on  every  side  it  is  hemmed  in  by  tall  elms,  so 
that,  in  the  summer-time  especially,  it  is  almost  impos 
sible  for  one  to  catch  a  full  glimpse  of  it  until  he  has 
arrived  very  near. 

The  house,  though  a  century  old,  shows  no  signs  of 
decay.  It  was  built  by  master-builders,  and  by  a 
84 


jFames  Russell  Lowell.  85 

famous  generation  whose  good  nature  still  lingers  in 
the  fine  large  rooms,  and  the  capacious  chimneys. 

If  you  should  seek  to  know  something  of  its  history 
you  would  be  told  that  the  mansion  was  first  occupied 
by  Thomas  Oliver — by  whom  also  it  was  erected  — 
the  last  royal  lieutenant-governor  of  the  Province  of 
Massachusetts.  At  the  outbreak  of  the  revolutionary 
war  the  owner  returned  to  England,  and  the  house 
then  became  the  property  of  Elbridge  Gerry,  one  of 
the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
governor  of  Massachusetts,  and  Vice-President  of  the 
United  States. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Gerry  the  estate  was  pur 
chased  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Lowell,  father  of  the  poet, 
by  whom  it  was  greatly  improved,  and  most  .of  the 
trees  now  towering  around  it  were  planted  by  him,  also 
the  name  of  "  Elm  wood  "  was  bestowed  on  the  estate. 

In  this  house,  on  the  2zd  of  February,  1819,  James 
Russell  Lowell  was  born.  In  1838  he  was  graduated 
at  Harvard  College  where  his  father  and  grandfather 
had  graduated  before  him.  In  his  "  Indian  Summer 
Reverie  "  he  thus  pleasantly  alludes  to  his  academic 
career : 

"  Though  lightly  prized  the  ribboned  parchments  there, 
Yet,  collegisse  juvat,\  am  glad 


86  Poets'  Homes. 

That  here  what  colleging  was  mine  I  had,  — 

It  linked  another  tie,  dear  native  town,  with  thee." 


' 


At  the  time  of  his  graduation  Mr.  Lowell  was  a 
young  man  of  nineteen  years,  full  of  life  and  promise, 
and  as  yet  undecided  as  to  his  future  course.  It  was 
supposed  by  some  of  his  friends  that  he  might  follow 
the  example  of  his  father  and  become  a  minister. 
On  the  contrary  he  chose  law,  was  in  due  time  admitted 
to  the  bar,  and,  finally,  opened  an  office  in  Boston. 

A  great  lawyer  has  recently  remarked  that  whoever 
seeks  to  render  himself  famous  in  the  profession  of 
the  bench  and  bar,  must  first  learn  to  "  eat  sawdust 
without  butter."  This  is  a  somewhat  inelegant  but 
forcible  way  of  expressing  the  fact  that  a  young  law 
yer  has  a  hard  road  to  travel,  and  that,  at  first,  he 
must  neither  expect  much  patronage  nor  grumble  be 
cause  his  outgoes  exceed  his  income. 

Mr.  Lowell  had  the  advantage  of  very  many  other 
men  of  his  age,  in  that  his  pecuniary  circumstances 
were  sufficiently  easy  to  enable  him  to  live  without 
much  worry  or  fret.  Nevertheless,  he  ere  long  ar 
rived  at  the  conviction  that  he  and  the  law  had  but 
little  in  common,  and  that  the  sooner  he  abandoned 
it  the  better  off  he  would  be  in  ihe  end. 

On  a  lucky  day,  therefore,  he  forsook  his  sheepskin 


y antes  Russell  Lowell.  87 

volumes,  and  the  few  clients  he  had  managed  to 
attract,  and  went  back  to  his  other  books,  and  the 
green  trees  of  Elmwood,  with  the  new  resolve  of  lead 
ing  henceforth  a  purely  literary  life. 

He  had  already  tried  his  skill  in  the  art  of  versifi 
cation,  and  had  written  several  poems  of  more  than 
common  interest.  In  1841,  as  a  first  venture,  he 
published  a  small  volume  of  poems,  entitled  "A 
Years'  Life,"  which,  three  years  later,  was  followed 
by  another  volume,  with  the  title  of  "  The  Legend  of 
Brittany,  Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Sonnets." 

Meanwhile  he  had  fallen  in  love,  and  in  1844  was 
married  to  Miss  Maria  White,  of  Watertown,  a  most 
excellent  and  highly  esteemed  lady,  and  a  poetess 
also,  whose  early  death,  in  1853,  was  the  occasion  of 
that  beautiful  and  familiar  poem  of  Mr.  Longfellow's, 
beginning : 

"  Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o'er  the  village  as  the  morning  broke; 

The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of  smoke," 

and  thus  continues  : 

"  'Twas  at  thy  door,  O  friend,  and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine, 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  Death." 


38  Poet?  Homes. 

This  poem  of  the  "  Two  Angels  "  has  long  been  a 
favorite,  though  by  many  misinterpreted.  In  order  to 
correct  an  error  it  may  be  said  here  that  the  coming 
of  the  Angel  of  Life  is  an  allusion  to  the  birth  of  one 
of  Mr.  Longfellow's  children,  which  was  coincident 
with  the  death  of  his  friend's  genial  wife. 

In  1845  Mr.  Lowell  published  a  volume  of  prose 
essays  entitled  "  Conversations  on  some  of  the  Old 
Poets,"  which  have  always  been  regarded  as  among 
the  very  best  of  his  writings,  and  as  one  of  the  best 
of  helps  to  the  student  of  English  poetry.  Three 
years  later  came  another  volume  of  poems,  then 
another,  and  finally,  in  1848,  the  pleasant  and  spark 
ling  poem  called  "  A  Fable  for  Critics." 

This  "  Fable,"  I  fancy  you  already  know,  is  a  sort  of 
review  in  verse  of  American  poets.  Very  many  of 
the  writers  of  his  day  are  summoned  before  him  to 
have  their  portraits  taken,  and  then  dismissed,  usually 
with  a  sharp  rap  or  two  on  the  knuckles.  The  pro 
duction  is  very  witty  and  humorous,  and  for  the  most 
part  is  written  in  a  spirit  of  genial  appreciation. 

In  the  same  appeared  also  "  The  Biglow  Papers," 
a  poetical  satire  upon  the  invasion  of  Mexico  by  the 
United  States,  the  state  of  the  slavery  question,  etc. 
These  verses  first  appeared  in  the  newspapers,  and  it 
is  safe  to  say  that  no  productions  of  a  similar  char- 


y antes  Russell  Lowell.  89 

acter  in  this  country  were  ever  half  so  popular. 
Everybody  read  them,  and  laughed  over  their  Yankee 
wit  and  humor.  One  of  the  learned  critics  of  the  day 
was  so  attracted  by  them  that  he  advised  their  author 
to  renounce  imaginative  poety  and  henceforth  confine 
himself  to  making  fun  of  the  follies  and  foibles  of  his 
r'ellow  men. 

In  1851-2  the  poet  made  a  first  visit  to  Europe; 
and,  on  returning  home  delivered  a  course  of  lectures 
Dn  English  poetry  before  the  Lowell  Institute,  in 
Boston. 

In  the  spring  of  1855  Mr.  Longfellow  resigned  his 
professorship  of  Belles  Lettres  in  Harvard  College 
and  Mr.  Lowell  was  appointed  as  his  successor. 
From  this  time  onward  he  has  held  this  position,  has 
written  new  books  of  prose  and  poetry,  and  been 
editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  and  the  North  Amer 
ican  Review. 

Whoever  wishes  to  become  somewhat  familiar  with 
the  poet's  home  must  first  look  through  the  collected 
edition  of  his  poetry,  for  it  is  a  memorable  fact  that 
very  many  of  his  best  pieces  have  been  suggested  by 
the  scenery  surrounding  his  abode,  and  particularly 
the  leafy  patriarchs  which  swing  and  cast  shadows 
before  his  study  windows. 

As  you   near  the  house  there  is  one  tree  which 


go  Poets'  Jfomes. 

always  arrests  the  attention  of  a  stranger.  A  very 
tall  elm  it  is,  though  in  recent  years  its  towering 
height  has  been  noticeably  diminished  by  the  worms, 
which  have  little  sympathy  with  things  beautiful.  It 
is  of  this  giant  object  that  the  poet  writes  in  "  A  Day 
in  June : " 

"And  one  tall  elm,  this  hundreth  year 
Doge  of  our  leafy  Venice  here, 
Who,  with  an  annual  ring  cloth  wed 
The  blue  Adriatic  overhead, 
Shadows  with  his  palatial  mass 
The  deep  canals  of  flowing  grass, 
Where  glow  the  dandelions  sparse, 
For  shadows  of  Italian  stars." 

Other  poems  there  are  which  assist  the  reader  in 
forming  a  clear  idea  of  Elmwood  and  its  surround 
ings.  Looking  out  through  his  study  windows  the 
poet  may  discern  the  "  silver  Charles  "  winding  slug 
gishly  through  slopes  and  meadows,  distant  farms,  the 
blue  hills  of  Milton,  and  what  he  himself  calls  the 
"  Coptic  Tombs  :  " 

"Below,  the  Charles, — a  stripe  of  nether  sky, 
Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 

Whose  gaps  the  missplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying  by, 
Now  flickering  golden  through  a  woodland  screen, 

Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  beyond, 

A  silver  circle,  —  like  an  inland  pond  — 
Steps  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and  greer. 


James  Russell  Lowell.  91 

"  Dear  marshes  1  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare ; 

Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 

On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For  Nature,  with  cheap  means,  still  works  her  wonders  rare. 

"In  spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 

O'er  which  the  .light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet ; 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen, 
There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet, 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd, 

As  if  the  silent  shadows  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet." 

Adjoining  the  grounds  of  Elmwood,  as  I  have  said, 
the  beautiful  city  of  the  dead,  Mount  Auburn, 
creened  by  its  loveliness  and  its  silent  watch  are 
vo  of  the  poet's  children  and  his  first  wife.  On  the 
rave  of  his  first-born  he  wrote  that  sweet,  tender 
Dem  called  "The  First  Snow,"  of  which  a  few 
anzas  must  be  given  here  : 

"  The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily,  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

\Vith  a  silence  deep  and  white. 


"  I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 


92  Poets'  Homes. 

"  I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 

Where  a  little  headstone  stood, 
How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

"  Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 
Saying,  '  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ? ' 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All- Father, 
Who  cares  for  us  all  below. 

"  Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 

When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

"  I  remember  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  the  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  that  deep-stabbed  woe. 

"  And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

1  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 

Alone  can  make  it  fall  1 " 

"  Then  with  eyes  that  saw  not  I  kissed  her, 
And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 

That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 
Folded  close  under  deepening  snow." 

One  of  the  most  popular  of  Mr.  Lowell's  poetic 
productions  is,  perhaps,  the  brightest  thing  in  the 
"  Biglow  Papers,"  —  a  poem  which,  if  you  remember, 
Parson  Wilbur  calls  a  "pastoral,"  but  which  the 
poet  himself  calls  "The  Courtin'." 

Just  after  the  election  of  General  Taylor  to  the 


James  Russell  Lowell.  93 

residency  of  the  United  States,  a  certain  room  in 
>ne  of  the  hotels  at  Washington  was  crowded  with 
ude  men  who  had  assembled  there  to  discuss  politics 
n  general  and  the  prospects  of  sundry  office-seekers 
n  particular.  While  the  jargon  was  at  its  height  a 
oughly-clad  son  of  New  England  came  into  the 
oom,  and,  addressing  the  company,  exclaimed : 

"Who  says  there  are  no  American  poets  ?  " 

It  was  a  strange  question,  strangely  put  before  such 
i  gathering.  The  rude  men  pondered,  but  nobody 
'entured  either  to  dispute  or  to  assent  to  the  interro 
gation. 

The  New  Englander  went  on  to  say : 

"Well,  if  anybody  says  there  ain't  I'm  prepared 
o  dispute  him.  /have  found  an  American  poet.  1 
lon't  know  who  he  is,  nor  where  he  lives ;  but  he  is 
he  author  of  these  lines,  and  he  is  a  poet." 

He  then  took  a  newspaper  from  his  coat-pocket, 
md,  with  proper  emphasis  and  gesture,  proceeded  to 
•ead: 


'  Zekle  crep'  up,  quite  unbeknown, 
An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder  ; 

An'  there  set  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hinder. 

"  Agin'  the  chimbly  crooknecks  hung, 
An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 


94  Poets'  Homes. 

The  queen's  arm  that  gran'ther  Young 
Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

"  The  wannut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her  I 

An'  leetle  fires  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

"  The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
looked  warm  frum  floor  to  ceilin', 

And  she  looked  full  as  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

"  She  heerd  a  foot  an'  knowed  it,  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins'  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt  up  paper. 

"  He  kin'  o'  litered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  of  the  seekle  ; 
His  heart  kep  goin'  pity  pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle." 

Doubtless,  many  another  anecdote  of  a  similar  .sort 
might  be  related,  as  showing  how  speedily  Mr. 
Lowell's  verse,  especially  when  it  is  brimming  over 
with  cheerful  humor,  finds  its  way  into  a  crowd  and 
takes  full  possession  of  the  popular  heart.  Safely, 
indeed,  may  he  be  called  a  "poet  of  the  people," 
since  few  other  American  writers  have  had  the  fortune 
to  see  so  many  of  their  productions  leading  a  sort  of 
Bohemian  life  in  the  newspapers,  devoid  of  the  trace 
of  their  authorship ! 


James  Russell  Lowell.  95 

Of  late  years  the  poet  has  been  something  of  a  pol 
itician,  not  unmindful,  perhaps,  that  one  of  the 
greatest  of  English  bards,  the  renowned  author  of 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  did  not  think  himself  justified  in 
keeping  aloof  from  the  political  circles  of  his  day. 

Before  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war  he  was  thor 
oughly  an  abolitionist,  and  labored  with  other  of  his 
friends  to  bring  about  the  emancipation  of  the  slave. 
This  fact  did  not,  as  many  might  have  fancied,  make 
him  any  enemies  in  the  South.  Hence  one  would  say 
that  he  is  "just  such  a  politician  as  Milton  was,  and 
will  never  narrow  himself  down  to  any  other  party 
than  one  which  includes  all  mankind  within  its 
lines." 

We  will  now,  if  you  please,  go  into  the  native  home 
of  the  poet.  Until  within  a  few  years  his  study  was 
on  the  third  floor,  in  that  corner  of  the  mansion  on 
which,  in  the  engraving,  the  light  falls  so  pleasantly. 

Leaving  the  gateway  behind  we  first  ascend  the 
walk,  which,  at  a  distance  of  about  one  hundred 
yards,  leads  up  to  the  broad  stone  steps  before  the 
entrance.  You  perceive  at  once  that  the  poet  is  a 
"lover  of  the  light,"  for  the  first  object  that  you 
encounter  on  your  visit  is  a  huge  glass  door — or 
rather  a  huge  glass  window  which  serves  as  a  door,  — 
through  which  you  may  gaze  into  the  hall,  through 


96  Poets'  Homes. 

and  out  again  by  another  glass  door  into  the  leafy 
perspective  beyond. 

On  the  right  of  the  hall,  as  you  have  entered,  is  a 
drawing-room  furnished  in  the  rich  and  solid  old- 
fashioned  style.  We  will  not  linger  here,  but  at  once 
pay  our  respects  to  the  poet  in  the  room  on  the  left 
of  the  hall. 

This  is  the  "  study,"  a  grand  room  in  every  re 
spect,  and  as  cozy  and  comfort-giving  as  it  is  grand. 
It  is  not  just  like  going  into  an  ancient  interior, 
to  be  sure ;  but  you  feel,  as  soon  as  the  door  rolls 
back  upon  its  hinges,  that  you  are  treading  a  floor  into 
which  nothing  of  the  new  style  can  ever  find  en 
trance. 

A  bright  fire  is  burning  on  the  hearth  —  and  such  a 
hearth  !  A  great  square  hole  in  the  chimney,  polished 
dog-irons,  on  which  are  piled  the  crackling  logs, 
bright  beneath  and  black  overhead,  — just  such  a 
place  as  the  Christmas  saint  would  wish  to  lurk  in  if 
benumbed  on  a  frosty  morning.  Well,  I  dare  say 
you  may  have  seen  such  a  hearth,  away  back  in  the 
country,  but  rarely  in  the  crowded  houses  of  our  cities. 

On  the  mantel-shelf  is  a  bronze  clock,  which  would 
fain  conceal  its  richness  under  a  crystal  globe.  On 
either  side  are  vases,  Gettysburg  relics,  and  other 
curiosities.  On  the  right  of  the  shelf,  and  where  the 


James  Russell  Lowell.  97 

room  projects  back,  forming  a  sort  of  alcove,  stands  a 
card-table  of  solid  mahogany  and  old-fashioned  origin, 
about  which,  it  is  averred,  some  of  the  renowned  Cam 
bridge  worthies,  of  several  generations  gone  by,  used 
to  smile  and  gossip  over  a  game  of  whist.  It  came 
into  the  poet's  possession  by  a  mere  accident ;  and 
where  you  see  it  now  you  will  probably  see  it  a  good 
many  years  hence,  for  it  is  rarely  used  now-a-days. 

Near  the  table,  and  on  the  north  side  of  the  room 
are  book-shelves,  laden  \/ith  treasures  which  years 
have  brought  together.  On  the  south  side  are  other 
shelves,  in  like  manner,  displaying  a  wealth  of  fine 
bindings,  mostly  of  foreign  workmanship.  In  the 
south-east  corner  of  the  room  is  an  old-fashioned 
secretary-desk,  which  the  poet  resorts  to  only  on  rare 
occasions. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  is  the  study-table,  strewn 
with  books,  manuscripts,  letters,  and  almost  every 
thing  else  that  falls  within  a  poet's  fancy,  Near  the 
inkstand,  and  with  its  mouth-piece  well  nigh  concealed 
beneath  a  cluster  of  quills,  is  a  huge  meerschaum 
pipe,  whose  sombre  hue  bespeaks  many  a  "  well 
spent  hour  among  the  clouds." 

Whether  at  work  or  at  leisure,  Mr.  Lowell  occupies 
the  broad  easy-chair  which,  as  you  perceive,  stands 
midway  between  the  table  and  the  fire-placo.  In  thjs 


98  Poets'  Homes, 

chair  he  has  done  most  of  his  writing,  his  only  desk 
being  a  stiff  piece  of  paste-board,  conveniently  resting 
on  his  knee. 

One  would  fancy  that  he  must  oftentimes  suffer 
from  an  aching  back,  or  feel  at  times  as  if  his  neck 
were  going  to  break  asunder.  He  is  never  troubled 
either  way ;  and  if  you  were  to  ask  him  how  he  came 
to  invent  so  singular  a  substitute  for  a  desk  he  would 
answer  that  he  has  always  made  use  of  such  a  con 
trivance,  and  cannot  accustom  himself  to  any  other. 

So  there  he  sits  and  dreams,  and  when  the  Muse 
inspires  him  plans  and  writes  out  good  thoughts  for 
his  fellow  men,  glancing  up  across  at  the  few  pictures 
which  hang  upon  the  walls,  or  perhaps  turning  half 
around,  to  scan  the  silver  Charles  as  on  he  winds  by 
marsh  and  meadow. 

Such  is  the  poet's  "  study  "  as  it  is  to-day.  Through 
the  door  which  opens  on  the  left  of  the  fire-place  you 
may  enter  another  study  which,  in  other  years,  was 
occupied  by  the  poet.  Books  crowd  the  walls  on  all 
sides,  a  few  portraits  hang  here  and  there,  and  in  the 
centre  of  the  room  is  a  square  desk,  which,  like  the 
more  old-fashioned  desk  in  the  adjoining  room,  is 
rarely  used.  The  only  "  curiosity  "  in  the  room  which 
rivets  your  attention  is  a  pair  of  silver  sleeve-buttons, 
now  tarnished  almost  into  blackness,  which  were  once 
worn  by  Robert  Burns. 


James  Russell  Lowell.  99 

Mr.  Lowell  is  thoroughly  a  lover  of  his  home. 
Here  he  was  born,  and  here  he  will  remain,  probably 
until  the  end  of  life.  On  a  spring  or  summer  day  you 
may  often  see  him  out  in  his  garden  as  n.  practical 
lover  of  nature,  and  proving  to  all  his  neighbors  that 
a  poet  may  also  be  something  of  a  horticulturist. 

He  is  fond  of  trees  and  flowers,  and  spends  much 
of  his  time  associated  with  them.  He  is  fond,  also,  of 
the  rifle  and  rod,  and  not  unfrequently  has  he  been 
discovered  lurking  in  wilder  regions  than  his  own 
peaceful  Elmwood,  equipped  with  the  sportman's 
ardor  and  arms.  As  a  pedestrian,  too,  he  is  not  less 
noted  among  those  who  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
him  in  his  daily  life. 

He  never  rides  when  he  can  walk,  and  he  always 
walks  be  the  weather  what  it  may,  when  time  and 
circumstances  permit.  Few  men  of  his  age  enjoy 
better  health,  are  more  erect  in  their  bearing,  or  more 
robust  and  manly  in  their  appearance  than  Mr. 
Lowell.  I  have  often  seen  him  in  the  bleakest  of 
wintry  weather  walking  leisurely  through  Cambridge 
thoroughfares  with  not  even  the  ghost  of  an  overcoat 
upon  his  back,  and  as  often  have  I  said  to  myself, 
"  Surely,  you  will  be  a  sufferer  from  this."  But  no,  in 
winter  or  summer,  spring  or  autumn,  he  is  always  the 
same,  and  goes  back  and  forth  as  if  wearing  the 
armor  of  Achilles. 


roo  Poets'  Homes. 

Socially,  the  poet  is  one  of  the  most  affable  and 
genial  men  that  have  ever  lived.  Always  agreeable 
and  pleasant  as  a  conversationalist ;  always  polite ; 
always  honest  and  honorable  in  his  intercourse  with 
his  fellow-men,  he  charms  most  those  who  know  him 
best,  while  those  who  know  him  least  never  deny  him 
that  respect  which  is  born  of  true  friendship. 

One  always  leaves  Elmwood  with  a  feeling  of  regret ; 
for  to  pass  from  its  cozy  and  quiet  interior,  its  green 
trees,  its  flowers  and  song  of  birds,  out  into  the  broad 
highway,  noisy  with  the  tread  of  many  feet,  and  the 
tinkling  of  horse-car  bells,  is  just  like  going  from  a 
realm  of  imagination  into  a  world  of  reality.  A  hun 
dred  rods  leads  you  from  the  country,  as  it  were,  into 
the  city.  Your  poet's  dream  vanishes.  You  almost 
forget  where  you  have  been  in  the  last  hour ;  ana 
thus  you  slip  back  into  your  old  ways,  and  the  duties 
of  life  again  crowd  upon  you. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


PENNSYLVANIA  is  far  more  famous  for  coal 
and  iron  than  for  poetry,  for  out  of  the  hun 
dred  and  sixty  or  seventy  poets  who  figure  in  the  last 
edition  of  Dr.  Griswold's  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  Amer 
ica  "  only  twelve  were  born  in  that  State.  But  among 
these  was  Joseph  Hopkinson,  who  wrote  our  national 
anthem,  "  Hail  Columbia."  Then  came  George  P. 
Morris,  who  wrote  "Woodman,  spare  that  tree," 
and  other  songs  which  Dr.  Griswold  thought  nearly 
faultless.  Then  came  Robert  T.  Conrad,  commonly 
called  Judge  Conrad,  who  wrote  a  play  about  Jack 
Cade,  for  Edwin  Forrest.  Then  Henry  B.  Hirst, 
who  wrote  a  poem  about  Endymion,  and  Mr.  Thomas 
Dunn  English,  who  wrote  the  pretty  song  of  "  Ben 
Bolt."  These,  and  three  lesser  writers  whom  I  need 
not  name,  bring  us  down  to  about  fifty-five  years  ago, 
when  real  poets  began  to  appear  in  Pennsylvania,  — 

101 


io2  Poets'  Homes. 

for  Hopkinson  and  Morris  and  Conrad  were  not 
poets,  but  clever  writers  of  verse.  Four  came  within 
four  years,  one  in  each  succeeding  year,  —  Thomas 
Buchanan  Read  in  1822,  George  H.  Boker  in  1823, 
Charles  G.  Leland  in  1824,  and  Bayard  Taylor  in 
1825.  Two  were  born  in  Philadelphia,  and  two  in 
Chester  county.  The  last  two  were  Buchanan  Read 
and  Bayard  Taylor. 

Bayard  Taylor  was  born  at  Kennett  Square,  Ches 
ter  County,  on  January  n,  1825.  I  know  the  old 
house  in  which  he  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  were 
born  :  two  girls,  who  are  now  mothers,  with  boys  and 
girls  of  their  own,  and  four  sons,  one  of  whom  was 
slain  at  Gettysburg  as  he  was  leading  his  men  to 
battle.  A  brave  soldier  and  a  good  man  was  Colonel 
Frederick  Taylor.  But  I  must  not  tell  the  story  of 
his  life,  or  the  story  of  the  lives  of  the  other  Tay 
lor  children.  My  business  is  to  tell  the  readers 
of  WIDE  AWAKE,  about  Bayard  Taylor.  He  is 
descended  from  one  Robert  Taylor,  a  primitive 
Quaker  and  a  companion  of  William  Penn,  who  settled 
at  Kennett  Square  a  hundred  and  ninety-six  years  ago, 
and  from  a  Lutheran  clergyman  who  emigrated  from 
Southern  Germany  about  fifty  years  later.  Bayard  Tay 
lor  was  the  fourth  child,  three  having  died  before  his 
birth,  and  it  was  doubtful  for  a  time  whether  he  was 
destined  to  live,  he  was  so  weak  and  frail. 


Bayard  Taylor.  103 

He  was  sensitive  as  most  delicate  children  are  ; 
he  disliked  rough  sports,  and  was  a  mystery  to  oth 
er  children,  who  did  not  understand  his  tastes,  and 
could  not  sympathize  with  his  little  ambitions.  He 
began  to  read  poetry  as  soon  as  he  could  read  at  all, 
say  when  he  was  five  or  six  years  old,  and  was  deep 
ly  impressed  by  the  death  of  two  great  poets  who 
died  in  his  seventh  year,  and  by  their  biographies  in 
the  newspapers.  One  was  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the 
other  was  the  German  poet  Goethe,  whose  "  Faust " 
he  was  one  day  to  render  into  English  verse.  He 
struggled  into  rhymed  couplets  at  this  early  age,  and 
two  or  three  years  later  succeeded  in  writing  whole 
stanzas.  "Many  other  children  have  done  the  same 
and  yet  have  grown  up  as  prosaic  as  the  most  practi 
cal  of  parents  could  wish ;  but  when  a  child  who  writes 
verse  is  what  the  others  are  not — a  born  poet,  he  goes 
on  writing  verse  to  the  end  of  his  days.  A  poet  sings 
as  naturally  as  a  bird,  but,  unlike  a  bird,  he  has  to 
teach  himself  how,  and  he  can  only  do  this  by  writing 
and  burning  a  great  many  bad  verses.  Bayard  Tay 
lor  wrote  poems  and  stories  and  essays  which 
delighted  him  until  he  discovered  that  they  were  bad, 
when  they  were  straightway  consigned  to  the  flames. 
He  was  passionately  fond  of  reading,  and  as  there 
were  but  few  books  in  his  father's  house  he  borrowed 
from  the  neighbors  when  they  had  any  to  lend.  There 


104  Poets'  Homes. 

was  a  library  in  the  village  containing  about  two  hun 
dred  volumes  which  he  read  through  by  the  time  he 
was  thirteen.  There  were  some  good  books  in  this 
little  collection.  Gibbon,  Robertson,  and  Sterne,  and 
Mrs.  Hannah  More;  and  there  were  elementary 
scientific  works,  and  sundry  volumes  of  travel.  He 
read  for  instruction  more  than  for  amusement,  and 
the  reading  most  to  his  taste,  after  poetry,  was  that, 
which  related  to  other  countries  and  quarters  of  the 
globe.  A  set  of  the  Penny  Magazine  was  eagerly 
devoured,  especially  the  articles  on  Italy  and  Greece, 
and  those  in  which  the  lives  of  famous  artists  were 
narrated.  A  taste  for  poetry,  which  is  the  highest  of 
all  the  arts,  is  frequently  accompanied  by  a  taste  for 
art,  which  is  poetry  in  its  way.  It  was  so  accompa 
nied  in  the  mind  of  Bayard  Taylor,  whose  greatest 
desire,  after  the  desire  to  excell  in  poetry,  was  to  be 
a  painter.  With  this  object  in  view  he  resolved 
when  he  was  sixteen  to  learn  engraving,  in  the  hope 
of  becoming  a  painter  afterward,  and  made  a  journey 
to  Philadelphia,  where  he  spent  a  week  or  two  trying 
to  obtain  a  situation  in  an  engraver's  office.  But  it 
was  not  to  be.  So  he  returned  to  Kennett  Square 
and  poetry.  He  had  already  passed  six  months  at  a 
boarding-school,  where  he  studied  Latin,  French  and 
Spanish.  He  was  bound  to  have  an  education  some 


Bayard  Taylor.  105 

ow.     His  father,  who  was  a  farmer,  naturally  thought 

lat  less  devotion  to  books,  and  more  devotion  to 

irming,  would  be  better  for  him  in  the  end,   or  at 

ny  rate  would  be  better  for  the  farm.     Most  country 

arents  thought  so  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  when  any 

f  their  children  were  given  to  reading,  which  they 

sally  considered  a  waste  of  time  !     We  know  better 

ban  that  now,  but  see  what  our  chances  are  com- 

ared  with  the  chances  of    our  ancestors.     Bayard 

Baylor's   mother  stood   by  him,    like   the   motherly 

;oman  she  was,  and  is,  and  his  reading  went  on.     I 

now  this  good  old  lady,  who  is  now  in  her  seventy- 

ighth  year — his  father  is  four  years  older  —  and  know 

/hat  he  owed  to  her  in  his  youth.     But  I  must  not 

/rite  about  Rebecca  Taylor,  nor  Joseph  Taylor,  as 

hey  call  them  at  Kennett  Square,  which  is  a  settle- 

ne'nt  of  Friends.     Both  were,  and  I  believe  still  are, 

nembers  of  this  peaceful  sect. 

Our  poet  and  would-be  painter  taught  a  country 
chool  the  next  winter  after  his  fruitless  visit  to 
Philadelphia,  and  devoted  his  spare  hours  to  the 
,tudy  of  languages.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  went 
o  West  Chester,  a  pleasant  town  about  ten  miles 
rom  Kennett  Square,  and  entered  into  a  printing 
iffice  in  order  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  compositor.  It 
s  a  tedious  labor  which  is  performed  mechanically, 


106  Poets1  Homes. 

and  it  left  him  no  opportunity  for  study  and  but  little 
for  reading.  Still  he  persisted  in  it  for  more  than  a 
year,  and  worked  away  at  his  Latin  at  night.  He 
now  began  to  publish  poetry  in  the  country  news 
papers,  and  when  he  was  eighteen  he  had  enough 
to  make  a  little  volume.  Armed  with  this  book 
let,  which  opened  with  a  narrative  poem  called 
"  Ximena,"  he  went  again  to  Philadelphia,  and  saw 
the  great  Dr.  Griswold,  who  wa's  the  editor  of  "  Gra 
ham's  Magazine,"  and  who  advised  him  to  publish  it. 
He  did  more  than  that  —  he  showed  his  faith  in  the 
printer-poet  by  accepting  one  of  his  poems  for  his 
magazine.  Another  great  man  of  that  day,  N.  P. 
Willis,  published  two  of  his  poems  which  had  been 
sent  to  him  in  the  "  New  Mirror,"  of  which  he  was 
the  editor,  with  a  notice  which  made  the  writer  of  the 
poems  jubilant.  He  was  beginning  to  be  recognized. 
A  few  months  later,  a  cousin  of  Bayard  Taylor  de 
termined  to  go  to  Germany  to  study  at  Heidelberg, 
and  he  instantly  determined  to  go  with  him,  and  to  pay 
his  way  by  getting  engagements  as  a  newspaper  cor 
respondent.  It  was  a  bold  idea  in  a  rountry  lad  of 
nineteen,  but  it  succeeded,  for  correspondents  were 
not  as  plentiful  thirty-three  years  ago  as  they  are  to 
day.  Money  must  be  raised  at  once,  and  to  raise  it 
"  Ximena  "  was  published  by  subscription,  Chester 


Bayard  Taylor.  107 

County  furnishing  nances  enough  to  pay  tht  expenses 
of  an  edition.  The  Philadelphia  papers  spoke  well  of 
the  little  poetical  venture,  which  was  handsome  of  them, 
but  somehow  they  didn't  seem  to  want  a  European 
correspondent.  Finally,  however,  the  "  United  States 
Gazette  "  and  the  "  Saturday  Evening  Post "  each 
agreed  to  take  twelve  letters  from  the  young  poet, 
and  to  pay  the  munificent  price  of  fifty  dollars  for 
them.  Dr.  Griswold  accepted  four  poems,  for  which 
he  paid  the  enormous  sum  of  forty  dollars.  Bayard 
Taylor  went  to  Europe  in  June,  1844,  with  only  one 
hundred  and  forty  dollars,  and  the  money  lasted  until 
the  next  February.  He  lived  eight  months,  in  a 
strange  country,  on  less  than  eighteen  dollars  a 
month.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  "  Saturday  Even 
ing  Post"  sem  its  correspondent  fifty  dollars  for 
twelve  letters  more,  and  Dr.  Griswold  sent  his  poet 
fifty  dollars  for  four  more  poems.  Poems  had  risen 
two  dollars  and  a  half  each,  but  letters  remained  at 
the  old  rate  of  four  dollars  and  sixteen  cents  and 
sixty-six  one-hundredths  of  a  cent  each.  If  Bayard 
Taylor  ever  looks  back  to  this  period  of  his  life  I 
think  he  wonders  at  the  courage  he  displayed  then, 
and  at  the  prudence  which  preserved  him  from  starva 
tion.  At  any  rate  I  wonder  at  both. 
There  are  events  in  the  life  of  every  man  which 


io$  Poets'  Homes. 

decide  his  calling,  and  this  visit  of  Bayard  Taylco  to 
Europe  decided  his  calling  as  a  traveler.  After  -e- 
maining  abroad  about  two  yeas,  during  which  time  he 
mastered  German,  and  became  tolerably  familiar  v;th 
Italian  and  French,  he  returned  to  America  and  to 
his  home  in  Kennett  Square,  when  he  collected  »nd 
carefully  revised  his  letters  of  travel.  He  then  de 
cided  to  republish  them  in  a  volume,  and  went  to 
New  York  to  find  a  publisher.  That  important  per 
sonage  was  found  with  great  difficulty,  and  only 
on  the  condition  that  N.  P.  Willis  would  write  a 
preface  to  the  volume.  Mr.  Willis,  who  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man,  and  noted  for  his  generosity  to  young 
authors,  wrote  the  preface  at  once,  and  the  book, 
which  was  appropriately  named  "  Views  Afoot,"  was 
published,  and  very  warmly  praised.  It  was  a  com 
mercial  success,  or  what  was  considered  one  at  the  time, 
for  two  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  six  months.  Bay- 
aid  Taylor  was  now  twenty -one  and  was  making  a 
name  in  literature.  So  far  well,  but  until  it  was 
made  how  was  he  to  live  ?  He  could  not  live  by 
literature  in  Kennett  Square,  where  not  even  a  news 
paper  was  printed  ;  nor  could  he  obtain  any  situation 
on  any  newspaper  in  Philadelphia.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  He  started  a  newspaper  with  a  friend,  who 
had  been  one  of  his  comrades  in  the  printing  office  in 
West  Chester,  —  a  weekly  newspaper  in  Phcenixville, 


Bayard  Taylor.  109 

Chester  County.     It  was  what  an  ideal  newspaper  may 
be — neutral  in  politics,  so  of  course  it  offended  both 
parties.     It  was  probably  not  local  enough,  so   the 
inhabitants  of  Phcenixville  were  not  interested  in  it. 
At  the  end  of  a  year  its  enterprising  editors  and  pub- 
Ushers  were  twelve  hundred  dollars  in  debt.     Bayard 
Taylor  resolved  to  give  up  his  share,  and  leave  the 
place.     He  wrote  letters  to  several  editors  and  au 
thors  in  New  York,  and  they  advised  him  to  go  there. 
It  was  wise  advice,  as  it  proved  in  the  end,  though 
the  outlook  at  first  was  gloomy.     His  earliest  employ 
ment  was  that  of  assistant  editor  on  the  "  Literary 
World"  under  a  brother  poet,  Charles  Fenno  Hoff 
man,  who  could  only  afford  to  pay  him  five  dollars  a 
week.     A  month  or  two  later  he  obtained  a  situation 
on   "  The  Tribune"  at   a  salary  of   twelve  dollars  a 
week.     If  going  to    Europe  decided   his  calling  as 
a  traveler,  "  The  Tribune "  decided  his  calling  as  a 
writer  for  many  years.     It  was  the  beginning  of  his 
popularity,  for  it  enabled  him  to  reach  a  larger  audi 
ence  than  his  books  had  yet  reached,  and  it  was  the 
beginning  of    his   prosperity.      Nearly   thirty  years 
have   passed   since   he  wrote    his   first   editorial   in 
"  The  Tribune"  and  he  is  still  writing  editorials  in  it. 
When  I  first  made  Bayard  Taylor's  acquaintance 
he  had  not  been  in  New  York  long.     He  was  editing 
"  Tfc  Union  Magazine"  for  our  common  frierH..  Mrs. 


no  Poets'  Homes. 

Caroline  M.  Kirkland,  who  was  spending  her  holi 
days  in  Europe ;  and  some  errand  of  my  own,  I  forget 
what,  took  me  down  to  the  Tribune  building,  and  up 
into  the  editorial  office.  It  was  not  in  the  Tall 
Tower  which  then  was  not,  but,  as  I  remember,  on  the 
top  floor  of  the  old  brick  building,  where  the  com 
positors  were  at  work.  I  cannot  exactly  place  the 
young  editor  at  this  visit,  but  I  think  there  was  a 
railing  round  him  and  a  fellow  editor.  My  next 
remembrance  places  him  at  a  desk  on  the  floor  below 
the  composing  room,  on  the  south  side  of  the  room, 
near  one  of  the  windows  that  looked  out  on  Spruce 
street.  I  don't  quite  know  how  it  was,  but  we  were 
soon  friends.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  we  were  nearly 
the  same  age  —  we  were  born  in  the  same  year  —  and 
that  we  both  wrote  what  we  thought  was  poetry  ( I 
am  not  quite  so  sure  of  it  now  )  may  have  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it.  It  was  not  long  before  it  was 
our  custom  to  spend  the  Saturday  evenings  together 
in  his  room  in  Murray  street  —  I  think  it  was  Murray 
street  —  where  we  read  this  so-called  poetry  in  MS., 
where  we  criticised  it,  rather  too  mildly,  I  am  afraid,  and 
where  the  poet-editor  tempted  me  into  smoking 
strong  cigars.  Shall  I  ever  pass  such  evenings  again  ? 
Never  till  youth  returns,  and  the  bright  enthusiasms 
of  youth. 


Bayard  Taylor.  ill 

•'There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nests." 

.t  is  Bayard  Taylor,  the  poet,  and  not  Bayard  Tay- 
lt>i  the  traveler,  whom  I  wish  the  readers  of  "  WIDE 
AWAKE  "  to  know  now,  so  I  shall  pass  rapidly  over 
his  career  as  a  traveler.  His  second  voyage  was  to 
California  just  after  the  breaking  out  of  the  gold 
fever  in  the  summer  of  1849.  He  went  there  as  cor 
respondent  of  "  The  Tribune"  and  the  letters  which 
he  wrote  to  it  were  better  than  those  of  any  other 
California  correspondent.  About  two  years  later  he 
went  to  Europe  for  the  second  time.  When  he  re 
turned  to  America  his  countrymen  wanted  him  to 
lecture,  and  he  did  so,  giving  ninety  lectures  during 
his  first  season.  Then  he  published  a  volume  of 
poems,  which  he  had  written  while  in  the  East,  and 
which  are  the  best  Eastern  poems  ever  written  by  an 
American ;  then  a  volume  of  prose  describing  a 
journey  to  Central  Africa ;  then  another  volume  of 
prose  about  the  lands  of  the  Saracen,  and  another 
about  North  China  and  Japan.  I  pass  over  the 
names  of  these  books  and  the  years  in  which  they 
were  published,  and  the  countries  that  he  traveled 
through  at  a  later  period,  and  come  down  to  his 
marriage  with  a  German  lady,  Marie  Hansen,  the 
daughter  of  Prof.  P.  A.  Hansen,  a  distinguished 


ii2  Poets'  Homes. 

astronomer  of  Gotha,  Germany.  The  happj  pah 
proceeded  to  Greece  shortly  after  their  marriage ,  and 
the  following  year  Bayard  Taylor  returned  to  America, 
with  his  wife  and  an  infant  daughter,  Miss  Lilian 
Taylor,  a  wild  rose-bud  of  a  young  lady  who  is  now 
blooming  among  the  recent  girl  graduates  of  Vassar 
College.  When  Bayard  Taylor  was  a  bachelor  it 
mattered  little  where  he  lived;  one  place  was  as 
good  as  another  to  a  man  of  his  roving  disposition. 
But  now  that  he  was  a  husband  and  a  father  it  be 
hoved  him  to  have  a  place  which  he  could  call  his 
home.  He  had  long  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  spot  of 
ground  upon  which  when  a  boy  he  built  his  castles  in 
Spain,  and  which  he  meant  to  buy  some  day,  when  it 
was  for  sale,  and  he  had  money.  It  was  as  much  a 
dream  at  first  as  his  voyage  to  Europe,  but  it  became 
a  reality  at  last,  as  the  voyage  did,  for  it  was  for  sale, 
and  he  bought  it,  or  rather  it  was  bought  for  him 
during  his  residence  abroad.  It  lies  in  sight  of,  and 
immediately  opposite,  the  old  Taylor  homestead,  from 
which  it  is  separated  by  a  country  road  that  goes 
winding  up  hill  and  down  vale  through  stretches  of 
beautiful  scenery.  The  border  which  faces  the  road 
is  wooded  with  tall  trees,  through  which  you  catch 
yiimpses  of  an  undulating  slope  of  pasture  bordered 
\t  the  farther  side  with  similar  old  forestry.  It  was 


Bayard  Taylor.  113 

originally  what  the  English  call  a  croft,  an  enclosed 
field,  and  as  it  was  well  sprinkled  with  cedars,  Bayard 
Taylor  christened  it  Cedarcroft.  The  site  that  he 
selected  for  his  house  was  at  the  upper  end  of  his 
grounds,  an  elevation  which  sloped  away  in  natural 
terraces,  and,  in  front,  in  a  gentle  declivity  of  lawn. 
Nature  made  the  spot  for  a  poet's  home,  and  a  poet 
made  it  his  home.  He  went  to  Europe  a  poor  boy,  as 
I  have  told  you ;  now  he  was  a  prosperous  gentleman. 
Sixteen  years  of  hard  work  were  rewarded  in  Cedar 
croft.  I  am  not  enough  of  an  architect  even  to  guess 
what  style  of  architecture  is  represented  in  Bayard 
Taylor's  house,  nor  indeed  do  I  care.  It  is  enough 
for  me  to  know  that  it  is  a  large,  comfortable  country 
house,  with  a  fine  outlook  on  the  surrounding  country, 
which  to  my  mind  is  the  perfection  of  pastoral  land 
scape.  I  like  the  seaside  better  than  any  inland 
scenery,  but  after  the  seaside  give  me  Kennett 
Square  from  the  tower  at  Cedarcroft. 

When  Cedarcroft  was  finished,  Bayard  Taylor  gave 
his  friends  and  neighbors  what  might  be  called  a 
house-warming.  I  went  there  as  his  old  acquaintance, 
and  one  pleasant  summer  day,  when  the  last  finishing 
touches  were  going  on,  he  or  I  conceived  .the 
idea  of  writing  a  play  and  producing  it  in  the  new 
house  before  a  country  audience.  We  retired  myste- 


ii4  Poets'  Homes. 

riously  into  a  room  by  ourselves,  in  the  tower,  if  my 
memory  serves  me,  and  commenced  our  wonderful 
labors.  We  set  to  work  like  another  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  and  selected  a  theme.  Then  we  remembered 
the  capacities  of  those  whom  we  had  chosen  to  play 
when  the  play  should  be  written,  and  fitted  them 
with  parts ;  then  we  began  to  write.  Sometimes 
Bayard  Taylor  wrote  a  whole  scene  without  any 
help  from  me  ;  sometimes  I  wrote  a  whole  scene  with 
out  any  help  from  him  ;  and  sometimes  we  wrote  a  whole 
scene  together,  he  the  speeches  of  one  character,  I  the 
speeches  of  another,  and  so  on.  We  finished  the  play 
in  two  or  three  days,  and  gave  the  actors  their  parts 
to  learn,  I  filling  the  difficult  and  thankless  part  of 
Stage  Manager,  as  well  as  my  own  part.  The  library, 
which  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  house,  facing  the 
barn,  was  turned  into  a  stage  by  running  up  a 
partition  of  muslin  sufficiently  far  from  the  walls  to 
allow  us  to  enter  unperceived  from  the  green-room, 
which,  by  the  way,  was  the  dining-room,  and  to  make 
our  exits  and  entrances  properly.  When  our  com 
pany  had  learned  their  parts,  and  had  gone  through 
enough  rehearsals  to  acquit  themselves  creditably, 
we  went  to  an  old,  disused  printing  office  in  Kennett 
Square,  and  set  up  and  printed  bills  for  the  per 
formance.  The  important  day  came,  and  the  guests 


Bayard  Taylor.  115 

came,  some  of  them,  I  believe,  from  miles  away,  sim 
ple-minded  country  folk,  many  of  whom  had  never 
entered,  or  perhaps  heard  of,  a  play-house.  The  par 
lor,  which  fronted  the  library,  and  the  hall  between 
the  parlor  and  the  library,  were  packed  with  the 
audience.  The  bell  tinkled,  and  the  curtain  rose, — 
or  were  the  library  doors  run  into  the  partition  wall  ? 
I  have  forgotten,  nor  does  it  matter  now.  The  play 
began.  The  scene  was  a  country  hotel,  at  which  two 
ladies  were  stopping,  an  aunt  and  a  niece,  one  of 
whom  was  wealthy.  Bayard  Taylor,  an  army  officer 
on  a  furlough,  was  in  love  with  the  niece,  to  whom  I 
made  love  on  account  of  her  supposed  wealth.  I  was 
an  airy,  impudent  scamp,  such  as  are  occasionally 
found  at  hotels,  living  extravagantly  on  nothing  a 
year.  The  landlord  of  the  hotel  was  a  tall  young 
man  who  stuffed  himself  out  into  a  Falstaff  with  bed 
pillows.  There  was  a  Yankee  servant  girl,  an  Irish 
servant  man,  and  other  characters  which  I  have  for 
gotten.  Army  officer  was  jealous  of  scamp,  for  mak- ' 
ing  love  to  his  girl :  landlord  was  enraged  with 
scamp,  for  not  paying  his  board  bill :  scamp  was  in 
a  quandary  between  niece  and  aunt.  You  can  make 
the  play  out  of  this  to  suit  yourselves,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  it  will  be  as  good  as  the  one  we  made, 
which  appeared  to  delight  our  simple-minded  audi- 


n6  Poets'  Homes. 

ence,  who  laughed  at  the  jokes,  but  missed  the  best 
joke  of  all,  namely,  that  there  was  not  one  original 
character,  situation,  speech,  thought  or  word  in  the 
whole  thing !  That  was  the  joke  of  "  Love  in  a 
Hotel,"  which  was  played,  for  the  first  and  last  time, 
one  summer  day  seventeen  years  ago  at  Cedarcroft. 

Eight  years  after  this  humorous  house-warming, 
Cedarcroft  was  again  the  scene  of  festivity.  Fifty 
years  had  passed  since  Joseph  Taylor  and  Rebec 
ca  Way  took  each  other  for  better  or  for  worse, 
and  their  friends  were  invited  there  to  celebrate  their 
golden  wedding.  All  their  children  who  were  in 
America  were  present,  with  a  host  of  friends  and 
neighbors.  The  house  was  overflowing  with  guests. 
A  little  literature  was  served  up  to  them  in  the 
shape  of  a  Masque,  which  was  written  by  the  master 
of  the  house,  and  performed  by  nine  young  ladies 
and  one  young  gentleman.  Among  the  characters 
were  three  fairies,  the  Fairy  of  Domestic  Life  with  two 
attendant  fays,  and  seven  spirits,  three  being  the 
cardinal  virtues  of  Truth,  Charity,  and  Temperance, 
and  four  impersonations  of  America,  Africa,  Switzer 
land  and  Germany  ;  Germany  being  the  birthplace  of 
Mrs.  Taylor,  and  Switzerland  the  residence  of  one  of 
Bayard  Taylor's  married  sisters.  It  was  a  pretty 
piece  of  verse,  and  it  went  off  well.  After  it  was 
finished,  two  poetical  greetings  were  read  by  the 


JBayard  Taylor.  i\) 

writers  thereof,  one  being  the  poet  Boker,  the  other 
your  humble  servant.  I  ought  to  remember  the 
the  Golden  Wedding  better  than  I  do,  for  it  occurred 
only  nine  years  ago,  and  I  see  it  still  in  my  mind's 
eye,  but  somehow  two  hundred  people,  young  and 
old,  in  one  house,  are  too  many  for  me.  Cedarcroft 
was  populous  that  bright  October  day ;  the  parlor, 
the  library,  the  dining-room,  swarmed  with  life  and 
resounded  with  merriment. 

I  would  like  to  describe  Cedarcroft,  if  I  knew  how, 
but  I  do  not;  I  have  no  talent  for  description.  My 
favorite  room  when  I  am  there  is  the  library,  where  I 
see  Bayard  Taylor  seated  at  his  desk,  translating 
"Faust"  may  be,  or  writing  a  book  of  travel.  He  is 
busy,  but  not  so  busy  as  to  be  entirely  absorbed  in  his 
work.  He  can  smoke  and  talk  without  losing  the 
thread  of  his  thought.  I  leave  him  writing  in  the 
library  and  pass  out  on  the  piazza,  the  pillars  of 
which  are  draped  with  vines ;  clown  the  terrace  and 
past  the  flower-beds  into  the  green  lawn  bordered 
with  trees ;  down  the  lawn  to  the  pond  at  the  end  j 
back  through  the  belt  of  trees  on  the  roadside  border 
of  Cedarcroft,  and  up  till  I  strike  the  drive  and  follow 
it  to  the  arched  portico  of  the  tower.  Then  I  stroll 
off  to  the  orchard,  the  grapery,  or  where  I  will,  for 
Cedarcroft  is  but  another  name  for  Liberty  Hall. 

I  am  not  going  to  describe  Bayard  Taylor  to  you, 


ti8  Poets'  Homes. 

nor  to  tell  you  about  his  books,  which  you  have  read, 
or  can  read  yourselves.  Whatever  your  taste  may  be, 
you  will  be  sure  to  find  something  in  them  that  you  will 
like.  He  has  published,  let  me  see,  —  eight  volumes 
of  poetry,  twelve  volumes  of  travel,  four  volumes  of 
novels  and  stories,  and  translations  of  the  two  parts 
of  "Faust,"  —  twenty-six  volumes  in  less  than  thirty- 
three  years,  to  say  nothing  of  the  works  he  has  edited, 
his  magazine  papers,  his  lectures,  and  his  thousands 
of  newspaper  articles.  He  loves  writing,  and  is 
never  so  happy  as  when  seated  at  his  desk  bending 
over  the  paper  which  he  covers  so  calmly  with  his 
beautiful  penmanship.  Such,  as  I  know  him,  is  the 
poet  Bayard  Taylor. 


I 


W.  D.    HOWELLS. 

N  Cambridge,  Massachusetts  are  the  homes  of  a 
number  of  poets,  and  prose  writers,  whose  names 
have  become  more  or  less  famous  throughout  the 
world  of  literature  and  art.  I  think  I  may  also  say 
that  most  of  these  homes  are  grouped  together,  as  it 
were,  within  the  radius  of  a  single  square  mile,  thus 
illustrating  what  ought  to  be  an  old  adage,  that  au 
thorship  likes  close  company. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  if  you  will  take  the  horse- car  at 
Bowdoin  Square  in  Boston,  and  get  out  at  Harvard 
Square,  in  Cambridge,  you  will  find  yourself  very 
nearly  in  the  centre  of  what  may  be  termed  a  literary 
habitation.  Whichever  way  you  turn,  or  whatever 
street  you  may  choose  to  follow,  you  are  pretty  sure  to 
pass  the  door  of  a  pen- worker  before  you  have  gone 
on  many  steps  ;  and,  if  you  keep  going  onward  a  little 
ways  and  then  swing  round  the  circle,  like  somebody 

119 


120  Poets'  Homes. 

of  whom  Parson  Nasby  used  to  tell,  you  will,  by  the 
time  you  arrive  back  at  your  starting  place,  have 
caught  a  glimpse  of  where  Holmes  and  Everett,  and 
Sparks  used  to  live,  as  well  as  where  Longfellow,  and 
Lowell,  and  Howells  and  a  host  of  others  still  live 
and  thrive. 

I  dare  say,  when  you  have  beheld  all  of  these 
wondrous  sights,  —  which  are  not  so  wondrous  after 
all,  when  once  you  have  thought  about  them,  — you 
will  ask  the  question,  why  have  so  many  literary  men 
chosen  to  make  their  homes  in  Cambridge  ?  I  have 
asked  this  question  over  a  hundred  times,  and  I  fancy 
that  I  have  not  found  the  answer  yet.  Perhaps,  in 
deed,  Harvard  College  is  the  great  attraction,  or 
rather  the  Library  which  belongs  to  Harvard  College, 
and  which  is  a  precious  source  of  usefulness  to  a 
person  engaged  in  literary  research.  Perhaps,  again, 
it  is  the  old  town  itself,  with  its  splendid  elms,  its 
quaint  old  houses  that  have  come  down  from  an  early 
day,  and  its  countless  other  relics  of  historic  times, 
which  lends  inspiration  to  the  intellectual  worker  and 
keeps  him  aloof  from  the  busy,  bustling  world  with 
out.  And,  perhaps,  finally,  Cambridge  is  no  more  at 
tractive  in  itself  than  many  other  New  England  towns, 
and  not  half  so  stirring  and  so  enterprising.  I  have 
dreamed  at  times  that,  if  some  great  giant  were  to 


IV.  D.  Howells.  121 

swallow  up  the  venerable  institution  of  learning  to 
gether  with  all  of  its  traditions  and  associations,  this 
famous  town  of  Cambridge  would  be  in  reality  what 
some  of  the  foes  without,  have  asserted  it  to  be 
already,  a  sort  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  where  half  of  the 
people  scribble,  and  the  other  half  read  and  admire. 

But  I  fear  you  may  be  taking  the  horse-car  back  to 
Boston  before  I  have  had  my  say,  if  I  do  not  come  at 
once  to  my  subject.  To  begin  again  ;  if  you  will  ac 
company  me,  in  a  five  minutes  walk,  through  Harvard 
Square,  up  Garden  street,  pass  the  Common,  whence 
the  patriots  of  '75  started  on  their  memorable  march 
to  Bunker  Hill,  and  then  up  the  beautiful  Concord 
Avenue  which  winds  onward  and  onward  through  sun 
light  and  shadow  until  it  loses  itself,  twelve  miles 
away,  in  the  first  battlefield  of  the  American  Revolu 
tion,  I  will  show  you  the  home  of  William  D.  Howells, 
a  graceful  poet  and  a  writer  of  deliciously  sweet  Eng 
lish  prose. 

It  stands  a  little  back  from  the  main  street,  and  is 
hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by  tall,  noble  trees  which,  in 
summer  time,  fairly  embower  it  with  their  foliage. 
The  house  is  newly  built  in  the  modern  style,  and, 
in  its  external  appearance,  does  not  vary  materially 
from  many  other  similar  edifices  which  are  visible 
around  it.  Having  passed  through  the  gate,  a  short 


122  Poets'  Homes. 

narrow  path  conducts  you  to  the  main  entrance,  which 
is  on  the  north  side  of  the  house.  The  bell  rings ; 
the  door  opens  ;  and,  a  moment  later,  you  sit  down  in 
the  study  of  the  poet. 

The  picture  which  the  artist  has  drawn  will  give 
you  a  much  better  idea  of  this  "  study  "  than  it  is  pos 
sible  for  me  to  convey  in  words.  It  is  not  a  very 
large  room,  nor,  indeed,  is  it  very  small.  On  the 
whole  it  is  an  agreeable  compromise  between  bigness 
and  littleness,  whereby  is  gained  one  of  the  snug 
gest,  cosiest  and  most  homelike  "  quarters "  that  a 
poet  could  desire. 

As  you  enter  the  room,  the  eyes  first  center  on  the 
well  planned  fireplace,  with  its  polished  dog-irons 
standing  out  from  the  hearth  and  its  capital  set  of 
mantel  shelves,  whereon  are  sundry  pieces  of  old 
china,  enamels,  Venetian  work,  and  other  knick-knacks 
of  story  and  interest.  Two  sides  of  the  room  are  re 
served  for  book  shelves,  which,  at  a  glance,  you  will 
observe  are  pretty  nearly  filled.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  is  the  poet's  desk,  on  which  many  of  his  poems, 
and  all  of  his  stories,  have  been  penned.  Mr.  How- 
ells,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  is  a  very  orderly  person 
age,  and  I  fancy  that  he  will  not  chide  me  for  saying 
that  almost  everything  finds  a  place  in  his  study  and 
—  is  in  its  place  always.  There  are  pictures  on  the 


W.  D.  Howells.  125 

work  long  before  he  could  reach  up  to  the  composi- 
itor's  case.  While  at  work,  he  always  took  a  just 
pride  in  what  he  was  doing ;  and  before  he  left  Ham 
ilton,  he  was  as  much  an  adept  in  his  art  as  was 
many  an  older  workman. 

During  all  these  years,  he  had  little  or  no  school 
ing,  and  perhaps  the  best  teacher  he  ever  had  was  the 
experience  he  gained  at  the  printer's  desk.  When  the 
nine  years  had  gone  by,  his  father  resolved  to  journey 
elsewhere.  Sometime  before  this,  the  prosperity  of 
his  newspaper  had  suffered  from  his  unstinted  ex 
pression  of  anti-slavery  opinions.  He  had  also  dared 
to  oppose  the  Mexican  War,  which  he  believed  had 
been  begun  and  was  waged  without  just  cause ;  and 
while  clinging  to  these  principles,  he  could  not,  of 
course,  prove  himself  a  very  staunch  supporter  of 
General  Taylor  for  the  presidency.  He  had  therefore 
sold  out  his  newspaper,  and,  in  1849,  removed  to  Day 
ton  and  became  proprietor  of  the  Dayton  Transcript. 

Hitherto  this  newspaper  had  been  published  as  a 
semi-weekly.  The  new  owner  now  converted  it  into 
a  daily,  of  which  the  work  of  editing  and  printing 
was  wholly  performed  by  Mr.  Howells  and  his  three 
sons.  The  poet  used  to  work  on  the  paper  through 
the  day  and  oftentimes  late  into  the  night,  and  then, 
while  an  elder  brother  was  printing  the  edition,  he 


126  Poets'  Homes. 

would  sleep  out  the  hours  until  again  reminded  that  a 
new  day  had  begun,  and  he  must  deliver  the  papers 
to  the  subscribers  before  breakfast.  This  was  a  hard 
school,  it  will  seem  to  many ;  but  then  the  discipline 
and  the  experience  were  invaluable. 

Mr.  Howells  worked  at  the  printer's  trade  for  about 
ten  years.  But  meanwhile,  he  stored  his  mind  with 
other  things.  He  still  continued  to  read  the  works  of 
standard  authors;  and,  when  he  was  moved  to  do  so, 
he  wrote  an  occasional  poem,  and  published  it  in  his 
father's  newspaper. 

In  1850,  or  thereabouts,  his  father  being  then  a  re 
porter  of  Legislative  Proceedings  for  the  Ohio  State 
Journal,  Mr.  Howells  also  removed  to  Columbus, 
where  he  worked  as  a  compositor  on  a  salary  of  four 
dollars  a  week.  Thenceforth  till  1858,  he  was  occu 
pied  as  compositor,  reporter  and  country  journalist, 
and  was  then  appointed  news  editor  on  the  State  Jour 
nal,  holding  the  position  till  August,  1861. 

Some  time  previous  to  this  appointment,  he  made  a 
trip  to  St.  Louis  by  water,  in  company  with  his  uncle, 
who  was  associated  with  one  of  the  steamboat  lines 
of  the  day.  This  excursion  pleased  him  immensely, 
for  never  before  had  he  beheld  so  much  of  the  world. 
It  revealed  to  him  new  scenes  and  incidents,  and  out 
pf  the  materials  thus  furnished  he  afterwards  wove 


W.  £>.  Howells.  127 

that  well-known  poem,  called  the  "Pilot's  Story," 
which  first  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  1860, 
and  for  which  he  received  what  seemed  to  him  to  be 
a  very  large  sum  of  money — just  twenty-five  dollars! 

In  1860,  he  published  in  connection  with  Mr.  John 
J.  Piatt,  a  small  volume  entitled :  "  Poems  of  Two 
Friends."  Most  of  the  contents  of  this  little  book 
were  the  productions  of  Mr.  Piatt,  another  poet,  and 
at  one  time  a  fellow-worker  with  Mr.  Howells  in  the 
printing  room  of  the  State  Journal. 

In  the  spring  of  1860,  the  National  Republican 
Convention,  which  met  at  Chicago,  nominated  Abra 
ham  Lincoln  for  the  Presidency.  At  the  time,  Mr. 
Howells  was  connected  with  a  publishing  house  in 
Columbus,  and,  at  the  request  of  the  proprietor,  he 
undertook  to  write  a  campaign  life  of  the  future  pres 
ident.  He  finished  the  work  in  a  few  weeks,  and  the 
book  sold  tolerably  well.  By  way  of  recompense,  the 
author  received  a  letter  of  credit  on  several  Eastern 
houses,  and,  thus  equipped,  he  visited  the  East  in  the 
summer  of  1860,  traveling  by  way  of  the  St.  Law 
rence  river  down  through  New  England  and,  finally, 
pausing  for  a  while  in  Boston. 

As  I  have  already  said,  he  had  previously  sent  a 
number  of  poems  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  all  of 
which  had  been  graciously  accepted  by  Mr.  Lowell, 


ia8  Poets'  Homes. 

who  was  then  the  editor-in-chief.  His  reception  in 
Boston  was  most  gratifying,  and  he  there  met  for  the 
first  time  many  of  his  warmest  and  most  valued  friends 
He  had  already  gained  something  of  a  reputation  foi 
himself,  by  the  publication  of  his  poems,  all  of  which 
showed  perfect  finish  and  a  crystal-like  clearness  oi 
thought.  One  of  them,  in  particular,  was  much  ad 
mired,  —  probably  because  it  was  so  very  short  and 
sweet.  It  is  called  "  The  Mysteries,"  and  I  quote  i! 
here  entire : 


"  Once  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child,  I  crept, 

Holding  my  breath, 

There,  safe  and  sad,  lay  shuddering,  and  wept 
At  the  dark  mystery  of  Death. 

"  Weary  and  weak,  and  worn  with  all  unrest, 

Spent  with  the  strife,  — 
O  mother,  let  me  weep  upon  thy  breast 
At  the  sad  mystery  of  Life." 


In  the  autumn  of  1861,  Mr.  Howellswas  appointee) 
United  States  Consul  at  Venice.  Of  his  life  in  tha1 
beautiful  Italian  city,  so  renowned  in  history  and 
poetry,  he  has  given  us  a  capital  account  in  his  "Ve 
netian  Life,"  a  volume  which  was  first  published  in 
London  in  1865,  and  in  New  York  in  the  following 
year.  la  this  work  one  gained  an  idea  of  Venice 


W.  D.  Howells.  129 

second  only  to  that  which  he  would  gain  frorn  an  ac 
tual  residence  there. 

During  the  first  year  of  his  sojourn  in  Venice,  Mr. 
Howells  led  a  bachelor's  life  ;  but,  in  1862,  he  was 
married  at  Paris  to  Miss  Elinor  G.  Mead,  a  sister  of 
the  sculptor,  Larkin  J.  Mead,  of  Vermont,  and  shortly 
afterward,  these  "  two  little  people,"(so  he  himself  calls 
them)  went  to  housekeeping  in  Venice,  in  the  Casa 
Falier,  a  famous  old  palace,  looking  out  upon  the 
waters  of  the  Grand  Canal. 

The  "  gondoliers,"  says  Mr.  Howells,  "used  always 
to  point  out  our  palace  as  the  house  in  which  Marino 
Falier  was  born,  and,  for  a  long  time  we  clung  to  the 
hope  that  it  might  be  so ;  but,  however  pleasant  it 
was,  we  were  forced,  on  reading  up  the  subject  a  little 
to  relinquish  our  illusion,  and  accredit  an  old  palace 
at  Santi  Apostoli  with  the  distinction  we  would  fain 
have  claimed  for  ours.  I  am  rather  at  a  loss  to  ex 
plain  how  it  made  our  lives  in  Casa  Falier  any  pleas- 
anter  to  think  that  a  beheaded  traitor  had  been  born 
in  it,  but  we  relished  the  superstition  amazingly  as 
long  as  we  could  possibly  believe  in  it.  What  went 
far  to  confirm  us  at  first  in  our  credulity  was  the  res 
idence,  in  another  part  of  the  palace,  of  the  Canonico 
Falier,  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  unhappy  doge. 
He  was  a  very  mild-faced  old  priest,  with  a  white 


*3<*  Poets'  Homes. 

head,  which  he  carried  downcast,  and  crimson  legs, 
on  which  he  moved  but  feebly.  He  owned  the  rooms 
in  which  he  lived,  and  the  apartment  in  the  front  of 
the  palace  just  above  our  own.  The  rest  of  the  house 
belonged  to  another,  for  in  Venice  many  of  the  pal 
aces  are  divided  up  and  sold  among  different  pur 
chasers  floor  by  floor,  and  sometimes  even  room  by 
room." 

Mr.  Howell's  last  of  four  years  in  Venice  was  mostly 
passed  under  the  roof  of  one  of  her  most  beautiful 
and  memorable  palaces,  namely  the  Palazzo  Grusti- 
niani.  He  has  designated  his  abode  there  as  a  kind 
of  permanent  camping  out. 

"  When  I  remember,"  he  says  "  the  small  amount 
of  carpeting,  of  furniture,  and  of  upholstery  we  en 
joyed,  it  appears  to  me  pathetic  ;  and  yet,  I  am  not 
sure  that  it  was  not  the  wisest  way  to  live.  I  know 
that  we  had  compensation  in  things  not  purchasable 
here  for  money.  If  the  furniture  of  the  principal 
bedroom  was  somewhat  scanty,  its  dimensions  were 
unstinted  :  the  ceiling  was  fifteen  feet  high,  and  was 
divided  into  rich  and  heavy  panels,  adorned  each 
with  a  mighty  rosette  of  carved  and  gilded  wood,  two 
feet  across.  The  parlor  had  not  its  original  decora 
tions  in  our  time,  but  it  once  had  had  so  noble  a 
carved  ceiling  that  it  was  found  worth  while  to  take  it 


W.  D.  Howells.  131 

down  and  sell  it  into  England ;  and  it  still  had  two 
grand  Venetian  mirrors,  a  vast  and  very  good  paint 
ing  of  a  miracle  of  St.  Anthony,  and  imitation-antique 
tables  and  arm-chairs.  The  last  were  frolicked  all 
over  with  carven  nymphs  and  Cupids :  but  they  were 
of  such  frail  construction  that  they  were  not  meant  to 
be  sat  in,  much  less  to  be  removed  from  the  wall 
against  which  they  stood;  and  more  than  one  of  our 
American  visitors  was  dismayed  at  having  these  proud 
articles  of  furniture  go  to  pieces  upon  his  attempt  to 
use  them  like  mere  arm-chairs  of  ordinary  life. 
Scarcely  less  impressive  or  useless  than  these  was  a 
monumental  plaster  stove,  surmounted  by  a  bust  of 
^Esculapius ;  when  this  was  broken  by  accident,  we 
cheaply  repaired  the  loss  with  a  bust  of  Homer,  which 
no  one  could  have  told  from  the  bust  it  replaced  ;  and 
this,  and  the  other  artistic  glories  of  the  room,  made 
us  quite  forget  all  possible  blemishes  and  defects." 

But  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  Mr.  Howells  was 
chained  down  by  his  official  duties  as  Consul  of  the 
United  States ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  many  an  odd 
moment  of  leisure  to  himself,  and  such  moments  he 
wisely  consumed  in  making  short  journeys  to  other 
places  of  interest. 

In  this  way,  he  visited  Padua,  Pisa,  Ferrara, 
Trieste,  Posaquo,  Como,  and  Mantua;  and  on  the 


I32 


Poets"  Homes. 


8th  of   November,  1864,  he  started  on  the  longest 
road  to  Rome.     You  may  read  of   all  these  experi- 


W.  D.  HOWELLS. 

ences  in  the  author's  "  Italian  Journeys,"  which  was 
published  in  1867. 

In  the  autumn  of  1865,  Mr.  Howells  returned 
home,  pausing  at  London  only,  as  we  have  seen,  to 
put  the  manuscript  of  his  "  Venetian  Life  "  into  the 


W.  D.  Howells.  133 

printer's  hands.  He  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
go  back  to  Ohio,  but  was  disposed  to  make  the  ciiy 
of  New  York  his  next  place  of  residence.  Having 
chosen  literature  as  his  profession,  he  at  once  set  to 
work  to  achieve  success.  For  a  time  he  wrote  arti 
cles  for  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Times,  a  daily 
newspaper  ;  and,  a  little  later,  he  obtained  a  salaried 
position  as  one  of  the  writers  for  The  Nation.  Whilst 
attending  to  these  journalistic  duties,  he  also  found 
time  to  make  another  volume,  —  the  "Italian  Jour 
neys," —  out  of  the  materials  which  he  had  gathered 
in  his  travels. 

He  remained  about  four  months  on  the  staff  of  the 
Nation.  On  New  Year's  day,  1866,  he  received  an 
invitation  from  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  to  become  his 
assistant  editor  on  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  He  ac 
cepted  the  position,  and,  in  the  following  March, 
removed  to  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  In  July, 
1871,  Mr.  Fields  resigned,  and  Mr.  Howells  has 
occupied  the  position  of  editor-in-chief  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  ever  since. 

Since  his  return  to  America,  Mr.  Howells  has  pub 
lished  a  number  of  books,  all  of  them  of  more  than 
ordinary  interest.  In  1869,  appeared  his  hexameter 
poem  of  "No  Love  Lost,  A  Romance  of  Travel," 
happily  sketching  tourist  life  amid  the  fair  scenery  of 


134  Poets'   Homes. 

Venice.  In  1873  was  printed  the  collected  edition 
of  his  poems,  in  one  volume  of  very  small  dimen 
sions. 

In  1870,  he  published  the  "Suburban  Sketches," 
which  presents  a  very  amusing  but  singular  life-like 
picture  of  old  Cambridge,  and  of  the  experiences 
which  may  happen  to  one  journeying  thitherward  in  a 
horse-car  to  Boston.  This  book  has  proven  to  be  a 
favorite  with  the  author's  neighbors  and  friends,  and 
perhaps  not  a  few  would  say,  if  asked,  that  it  is  the 
best  piece  of  prose  writing  that  he  had  ever  done. 

The  next  book  was  "Their  Wedding  Journey," 
which  came  out  in  1871.  This  was  the  author's  first 
novel,  (  properly  speaking,  it  is  only  a  novelette  )  and 
has  been  greatly  admired  on  account  of  its  sparkling 
and  vivacious  characterization  of  a  young  married 
couple  who  are  supposed  to  be  making  the  tour  from 
Boston  to  New  York,  by  way  of  the  Hudson  to  Niag 
ara,  and  homeward  through  Canada  and  down  the 
St.  Lawrence. 

This  lively  book  was  followed,  in  1873,  by  "  A 
Chance  Acquaintance,"  and,  in  1875,  by  "A  Fore 
gone  Conclusion,"  —  two  other  novels  of  happy  char 
acter.  The  latest  novel,  "  Private  Theatricals,"  has 
not  yet  been  put  into  book  form,  but  has  already 
been  perused  by  a  host  of  readers  in  the  pages  of  the 


W.  £>.  ffowells.  135 

Atlantic  Monthly.  In  1876,  Mr.  Howells  also  wrote 
a  "Life  of  Rutherford  B.  Hayes,"  the  Republican 
candidate  for  the  Presidency. 

Mr.  Howells  has  always  been  a  steady  and  diligent 
worker,  and  never  allows  a  day  to  go  by  without  turn 
ing  it  to  some  good  account.  Besides  the  works 
enumerated  above,  he  has  contributed  many  articles 
of  interest  to  the  pages  of  the  North  American  Re 
view,  and  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on  the 
modern  Italian  Poets,  before  the  Boston  Lowell  In 
stitute.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  find  time,  ere 
long,  to  revise  these  lectures,  and  to  put  them  in 
book  form,  before  a  wider  public. 

Ever  since  his  return  to  this  country,  Mr.  Howells 
has  been  regarded  as  one  of  the  foremost  of  American 
writers.  His  sketches  of  travel  and  of  life  abroad, 
have  been  greatly  admired,  on  account  of  their  ac 
curacy  and  winning  style,  while  his  stories,  which  are 
almost  devoid  of  plot,  have  attracted  by  their  rich 
thought,  and  graceful  diction. 

It  is  not  generally  known,  however,  that  the  authoi 
would  rather  wished  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  poet, 
than  as  a  writer  of  genial  prose  :  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  the  fact  of  his  writing  such  prose,  in  the  past 
four  or  five  years,  has  not  a  little  destroyed  his  repu 
tation  as  a  writer  of  equally  charming  verse. 


136  Poets'  Homes. 

I  might,  were  I  so  disposed,  and  the  limits  of  my 
article  expanded,  quote  in  this  place  many  a  pretty 
poem,  that  the  world  would  not  willingly  let  die. 
Most  of  these  have  a  sort  of  serious  tone  about  them, 
while  not  a  few  are  unpardonably  sad.  Here  is  one, 
however,  which  is  neither  sad  or  serious,  and  which 
shows  the  humorous  side  of  the  poet.  It  is  entitled 
"  Caprice,"  and  is  as  follows  :  — 

"  She  hung  the  cage  at  the  window : 

'  If  he  goes  by,'  she  said, 
'  He  will  hear  my  robin  singing, 

And  when  he  lifts  his  head, 
I  shall  be  sitting  here  to  sew, 
And  he  will  bow  to  me,  I  know.' 

"  The  robin  sang  a  love-sweet  song, 

The  young  man  raised  his  head ; 
The  maiden  turned  away  and  blushed : 

'  I  am  a  fool,'  she  said, 
And  went  on  broidering  in  silk,         • 
A  pink-eyed  rabbit,  white  as  milk. 

II. 

"  The  young  man  loitered  slowly 

By  the  house  three  times  that  day ; 
She  took  her  bird  from  the  window : 

'  He  need  not  look  this  way.' 
She  sat  at  her  piano  long, 
And  sighed,  and  played  a  death-sad  song. 

"  But  when  the  day  was  done,  she  said, 
'  I  wish  he  would  come  ! 


W.  D.  Howells.  137 

Remember,  Mary,  if  he  calls 

To-night  —  I'm  not  at  home.' 
So  when  he  rang,  she  went — the  elf  — 
She  went  and  let  him  in  herself. 


III. 

"  They  sang  full  long  together 

Their  songs  love-sweet,  death-sad : 

The  robin  woke  from  his  slumber, 
And  sang  out,  clear  and  glad. 

'  Now  go  ! '  she  coldly  said ;    '  'tis  late ; 

And  followed  him  —  to  latch  the  gate. 

"  He  took  the  rosebud  from  her  hair, 
While,  '  You  shall  not '  I  she  said : 

He  closed  her  hand  within  his  own, 
And,  while  her  tongue  forbade, 

Her  will  was  darkened  in  the  eclipse 

Of  blinding  love  upon  his  lips." 


But  I  must  have  done  ;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  there 
is  scarcely  more  to  tell  you.  The  poet  is  but  a  young 
man  yet,  and  we  may  all  hope  that  his  work  is  just 
begun.  At  home,  he  is  happy,  contented,  genial, 
affable,  and  one  of  the  best  and  brightest  conversa 
tionalists.  He  is  fond  of  children,  and  he  has  three 
of  them,  the  eldest,  Winifred,  having  been  born  at 
the  Casa  Falier  in  1863.  If  you  were  to  call  upon 
him,  some  fine  day,  you  would  find  him  to  be  very 
much  of  a  boy,  and,  though  older  indeed  than  most 


138  Poets'  Homes. 

boys,  possessing  certainly  a  very  young  and  jovial 
heart. 

You  should  take  care,  however,  not  to  pay  your 
visit  in  working  hours,  that  is  to  say,  from  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  till  one  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon. 


RICHARD    HENRY    DANA. 

"T  T  THOM  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  a  say- 
V  V  ing  of  the  ancients.  We  moderns  know  that 
there  are  no  gods  either  to  love  or  hate,  but  we  un 
derstand  what  these  old  idolaters  meant.  They  simply 
meant  that  a  long  life  was  denied  to  the  possessor  of 
great  abilities,  —  that  the  finest  geniuses  had  the 
shortest  lives.  Was  it  true  then  ?  is  it  true  now  ? 

Let  us  see  whether  it  was  true  of  the  ancient  poets, 
and  is  true  of  the  modern  poets.  Everybody  knows 
that  Thomas  Chatterton  was  a  wonderful  genius,  and 
that  he  perished  young.  The  poor  boy  poisoned  him 
self  before  he  was  eighteen.  Henry  Kirke  White 
who  was  a  pleasing  poet,  died  before  he  was  twenty- 
two,  and  Michael  Bruce,  a  minor  Scottish  poet,  died 
in  his  twenty-second  year.  Two  great  poets  died  at  a 
comparatively  early  age,  Shelley  before  he  was  thirty, 
139 


140  Poets'  Homes. 

and  Byron  shortly  after  he  was  thirty-six.  Five  of 
the  British  poets,  then,  may  be  said  to  have  died 
young.  But  let  us  look  further,  and  not  merely  at 
the  British,  but  at  the  French,  the  German,  and  the 
Greek  poets.  Passing  over  Homer,  of  whom  nothing  is 
known  (tradition  says  he  was  old  and  blind),  we  find 
that  Euripides  lived  to  be  seventy-four,  and  Sophocles 
ninety.  The  German  poet  Klopstock  lived  to  be 
seventy-nine,  and  Goethe  eighty-three.  The  French 
poet  Beranger  lived  to  be  seventy-seven,  Corneille  to 
be  seventy-eight,  and  Voltaire  eighty-four.  The 
English  poet  Rogers  lived  to  be  ninety-two.  Philip 
Freneau,  an  early  American  poet,  lived  to  be  nearly 
eighty-one.  Mr  William  Cullen  Bryant  is  now  in  his 
eighty-third  year,  and  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Dana  in  his 
ninetieth  year.  It  is  not  true,  therefore,  that  those 
"  whom  the  gods  love  die  young." 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  about  Mr.  Rich 
ard  Dana,  but  not  much,  for  there  is  not  much  to  tell. 
If  Mr.  Dana  himself  were  asked  to  tell  the  story  of 
his  life,  he  might  quote  the  line  which  Canning  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  his  famous  needy  knife-grinder, 
"  Story  ?  Lord  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir." 

Mr.  Dana's  family  is  an  old  and  honorable  one  in 
New  England.  Dr.  Griswold  traces  it  back  to  a 
William  Dana,  Esq.,  who,  he  says,  was  Sheriff  of 
140 


Richard  Henry  Dana. 


141 


Middlesex  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  but  the 
American  Danas  don't  believe  in  this  gentleman, 
mythical  or  otherwise.  The  first  Dana  that  came  to 


RICHARD  HENRY   DANA. 

America  was  Richard  Dana,  who  in  1640  settled  in 
Cambridge,  Mass.  A  grandson  of  the  same  name, 
who  was  the  grandfather  of  Mr.  Dana,  and  an  emi 
nent  lawyer,  was  an  active  Whig  in  the  troubles  in 
Boston  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolution, 


142  Poets'  Homes. 

His  son,  Francis  Dana,  was  minister  to  Russia  during 
the  Revolution,  a  member  of  Congress,  and  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Massachusetts  Convention  for  adopting  the 
national  Constitution.  He,  too,  was  an  eminent 
lawyer,  for  he  rose  to  be  Chief  Justice  of  Massachu 
setts.  He  married  a  daughter  of  William  Ellery,  one 
of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
for  Rhode  Island,  who  was  the  mother  of  our  vener 
able  poet.  Mr.  Dana's  ancestors,  we  see,  were  men 
of  repute  in  their  day  and  generation,  and  if  there  is 
anything  to  be  proud  of  in  ancestry,  and  I  am  inclined 
to  think  there  is  sometimes,  he  has  a  right  to  be  proud 
of  them. 

The  ancients  had  among  their  games  a  race,  the 
name  of  which  escapes  me,  the  runners  in  which  bore 
lighted  torches,  which  were  handed  on  when  they 
became  exhausted  to  their  more  fortunate  comrades. 
The  torch  which  has  been  handed  on  in  the  Dana 
family  is  that  of  Law,  which  has  descended  through 
several  generations,  and  which  to-day  is  shining  in 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Dana  Jr.,  a  hale 
young  gentleman  of  sixty-two.  If  I  were  given  to 
fanciful  speculations,  I  might  trace  the  torch  of  Poe 
try,  which  has  long  expired  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dana, 
back  into  the  hands  of  our  early  poetess,  but  it  is  not 
worth  while,  for  she  is  so  obscure  that  I  will  wager  a 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  143 

trifle  —  say  my  head  —  that  no  reader  of  "Wide 
\wake  "  ever  heard  of  her,  and  few,  if  any,  of  their 
parents  either.  Who  knows  who  Mistress  Anne 
Bradstreet  was,  —  the  tenth  muse  springing  up  in 
America  ? 

Mr.  Richard  Henry  Dana,  was  born  in  Cambridge, 
November  i5th,  1787.  A  delicate  child,  of  uncer 
tain  health,  unable  to  apply  himself  to  constant  study, 
he  passed  much  of  his  time  in  rambling  over  the 
rocks  at  Newport,  where  he  was  taken  when  about 
ten  years  old,  and  where  his  mind  was  in  unconscious 
sympathy  with  his  surroundings.  If  the  old  woods 
and  bleak  hills  of  Cummington  inspired  young  Master 
Bryant  to  write  "  Thanatopsis,"  the  rocky  shore  and 
the  wild  waves  of  Newport  inspired  Mr.  Dana  to 
write  "The  Buccaneer." 

But  I  must  not  let  myself  outrun  his  childhood 
which  was  an  out-door  one,  as  I  have  said,  at  any 
rate,  until  he  returned  to  Cambridge  and  entered 
Harvard  College,  where  he  pursued  his  studies  until 
his  twentieth  year,  when  he  left  college,  and  returned 
to  Newport.  So  Dr.  Griswold  says,  and  adds  that  he 
spent  two  years  in  studying  the  Latin  language  and 
literature,  —  as  if  he  had  not  already  studied  them  ! 

This  brief  paragraph  covers  the  first  twenty  years 
of  Mr.  Dana's  life,  so  you  see  I  was  right  in  saying 


144  Poets?  Homes. 

that  there  was  not  much  to  tell.  Perhaps  it  will  be 
more  interesting  later  on. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  ancestral  torch  of  the  Dana 
family.  It  was  now  committed  to  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Dana,  and  he  may  be  said  to  have  kindled  it  in  the 
office  of  his  cousin,  Francis  Dana  Channin<r,  with 

O' 

whom  he  studied  law,  and  with  enough  success  to  be 
admitted  to  the  Boston  bar.  He  was  also  admitted 
to  the  bar  of  Baltimore,  where  he  resided  for  a  time. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  was  elected  to  the  legis 
lature  of  his  native  State,  and  three  years  afterwards 
he  made  his  first  appearance  in  Literature,  as  the 
author  of  an  oration  which  he  delivered  on  the  cele 
bration  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  which  meant  more  to 
our  ancestors  than  it  meant  to  us,  especially  at  that 
time,  when  they  were  wrought  up  with  their  second 
war  with  England.  Orator,  politician,  lawyer  —  Mr. 
Dana's  chances  of  becoming  a  poet  were  not  brilliant 
at  twenty-seven. 

If  I  knew  just  how  much  the  majority  of  the  read 
ers  of  "  Wide  Awake "  knew  about  the  history  of 
American  literature  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  I 
should  know  what  to  tell  them  next ;  but,  as  I  do  not, 
I  must  proceed  as  well  as  I  can.  Briefly,  then, 
America  had  no  literature  worth  speaking  of  when 
Mr.  Dana  delivered  his  Fourth  of  July  oration.  One 


Rifhard  Henry  Dana.  145 

lovelist  had  appeared,  in  the  person  of  Charles 
Jrockden  Brown,  who  wrote  five  or  six  uncanny  sto- 
ies  ;  and  two  essayists,  James  K.  Paulding  and  Wash- 
ngton  Irving,  who  wrote  together  a  series  of  papers 
ailed  "  Salmagundi."  "  The  Sketch  Book  "  did  not 
xist,  none  of  Cooper's  novels  were  written,  and  there 
/ere  no  magazines,  or  what  we  to-day  would  think 
/ere  magazines.  A  graduate  of  Harvard  College 
iad  commenced  a  monthly  Anthology  when  Mr. 
)ana  was  sixteen  years  old.  It  was  managed  by  a 
lub  of  gentlemen,  of  whom  he  was  one,  and  when 
hat  publication  expired,  as  it  did  at  the  end  of  eight 
ears,  this  club  grew  into  another,  which  four  years 
ater  started  the  "  North  American  Review."  It  had 
our  different  editors  in  the  first  three  years  of  its  ex- 
stence,  the  last  being  Mr.  Edward  T.  Channing,  who 
hared  his  duties  with  his  cousin  Mr.  Dana,  whose 
iterary  life  may  be  said  to  have  begun  in  its  pages. 
Nobody  that  I  have  heard  of  ever  had  a  lively  life  on 
he  North  American  Review,  and  nobody,  I  suppose, 
:ver  expected  to. 

"  But  you  are  not  telling  us  about  the  life  of  Mr. 
Dana,"  the  impatient  readers  of  "Wide  Awake" 
nay  say.  To  which  I  reply  I  am  telling  you  all  I 
;now.  I  have  not  told  you,  though,  that  he  was  mar- 
•ied  before  this  ;  but  he  was,  for  the  son  of  whom  I 


146  Poets?  Homes. 

have  already  spoken,  came  into  the  world  in  the  same 
year  that  the  "  North  American  Review  "  did.  Mr. 
Dana's  connection  with  this  periodical  lasted  as  long 
as  his  cousin  continued  its  editor,  and  when  the  latter 
was  made  a  professor  at  Harvard  he  left  it,  and  in 
the  following  year  began  to  publish,  in  numbers,  in 
New  York,  a  work  entitled  "  The  Idle  Man."  There 
was  no  reason  why  it  should  not  succeed  ;  "  The  Sketch 
Book"  had  done  so  six  years  before,  but  succeed 
it  did  not,  so  Mr.  Dana  stopped  with  the  first  number 
of  the  second  volume,  for  he  was  writing  himself  into 
debt.  He  could  have  afforded  this,  I  have  no  doubt, 
for  his  family  was  wealthy  —  his  father  used  to  ride  to 
court  in  his  coach,  and  traveled  the  circuits  with  his 
body-servant,  —  but  he  concluded  not  to  do  so.  It 
was  enough  to  lose  his  work  without  losing  his  money 
also. 

The  only  eminent  man  of  letters  that  Mr.  Dana 
associated  with  —  as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn, 
I  mean,  —  was  Mr.  Bryant,  whose  poem  of  "  Thana- 
topsis"  was  sent  to  the  "North  American  Review," 
when  he  was  a  member  of  the  club  who  managed  it. 
He  saw  its  greatness  at  once,  and  walked  from  Cam 
bridge  to  Boston,  to  have  a  view  of  its  remarkable 
author.  When  he  reached  the  State  House,  a  plain, 
middle-aged  man,  with  a  business-like  aspect,  was 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  147 

pointed  out  to  him.  A  glance  was  enough ;  the  legis 
lator  could  not  be  the  author  of  "  Thanatopsis,"  and 
he  returned  without  seeking  an  interview  with  him. 
A  slight  mistake  of  names  had  misled  his  informant. 
So  says  Dr.  Griswold,  who  adds  that  Mr.  Dana 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Bryant  when  he  came 
to  Cambridge  to  deliver  his  poem  of  "  The  Ages  " 
at  Harvard  College.  The  result  of  this  acquaintance 
was  the  contribution  by  Mr.  Bryant  of  several  poems 
to  "The  Idle  Man."  They  were  fine,  no  doubt ;  but 
they  failed  to  quicken  the  stagnant  circulation  of  that 
languid  literary  personage,  whose  doom  was  nigh. 

Another  result  was  the  first  poem  that  Mr.  Dana  is 
said  to  have  written,  "  The  Dying  Raven,"  which  was 
published  four  years  after  the  death  of  the  unfortu 
nate  "  Idle  Man,"  in  "  The  New  York  Review,"  which 
was  edited  by  Mr.  Bryant,  his  poetical  friend.  I  do 
not  understand  how  it  was  that  Mr.  Dana  published 
no  poetry  before  he  was  thirty-eight  years  old,  but  all 
his  biographers  say  so,  and  I  suppose  we  must  believe 
them.  "  The  Dying  Raven  "  certainly  was  like  the 
work  of  an  unpracticed  hand. 

The  habit  of  writing  poetry  grows  upon  one  when 
once  formed,  like  other  habits,  good  or  bad,  and  Mr. 
Dana  was  no  exception  to  the  rule,  for  within  two 
years  after  the  appearance  of  "The  Dying  Raven  " 


148  Poets'  Homes. 

he  had  written  poetry  enough  to  make  a  volume.  It 
was  published  in  his  fortieth  year,  under  the  simple 
title  of  "  Poems,"  of  which  there  were  nine,  the  most 
important  one  being  "  The  Buccaneer."  It  is  a  story 
poem,  and  as  the  readers  of  "  Wide  Awake  "  may  like 
to  know  what  the  story  is,  I  will  try  to  state  the  sub 
stance  of  it  in  prose. 

There  was  once,  and  of  course  there  is  now,  an 
island  nine  leagues  off  the  shore,  which  we  will  sup 
pose  to  be  the  shore  of  New  England,  and  this  island 
was  the  haunt  of  a  band  of  pirates,  whose  captain  was 
named  Matthew  Lee.  He  was  a  dark,  low,  brawny 
man,  with  thick-set  brows,  gray  eyes,  and  a  mocking 
laugh,  and  his  heart  was  as  cruel  as  his  arm  was 
strong.  Such  was  Matt  Lee,  who  had  made  great 
gains  by  piracy,  but  failed  to  keep  them  long,  for  the 
waste  of  such  men  is  always  greater  than  their  gain. 

So  he  made  up  his  mind  one  day  to  try  the  mer 
chant's  trade,  and  sell  what  he  had  left.  He  manned 
his  ship,  put  a  cargo  of  his  spoils  on  board,  and 
sailed  away  from  the  island.  A  storm  soon  rose,  the 
sea  run  high,  and  the  ship  sprung  a  leak.  They 
worked  hard  at  the  pumps,  and,  to  lighten  the  ship, 
threw  all  the  cargo  overboard,  and  just  managed  to 
reach  a  port  with  torn  spars  and  sails. 

Lee  was  in  a  furious  humor,  for  he  had  lost  his 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  149 

cargo,  and  his  ship  was  a  wreck.  There  was  no 
chance  of  his  prospering  by  lawful  trade,  so  he  told 
his  men  that  they  would  go  to  their  old  work  again. 
It  was  a  Spanish  port  that  he  was  in,  and  the  French 
were  fighting  with  the  Spaniards  and  the  English  in 
the  great  Peninsular  war  early  in  the  present  century. 

A  young  Spanish  lady  wished  to  leave  the  country, 
which  was  no  longer  dear  to  her,  because  her  husband 
had  fallen  in  battle ;  and  Lee,  who  pretended  to  pity 
her,  offered  to  take  her  on  board  his  ship,  which  had 
been  repaired.  The  poor  young  widow  trusted  in  his 
promises,  and  came  on  board,  with  her  servants  and 
her  wealth,  and  a  white  horse  she  used  to  ride  in  the 
life-time  of  her  husband.  The  sun  went  down  on  the 
sea,  and  the  shadows  gathered  round  her  home.  The 
stars  burned  brightly,  and  she  looked  towards  the 
shore,  beyond  the  waters  black  in  night. 

"I  shall   never  see   thee   more,"  she   murmured. 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou  sad  one !  The  moon  rises,  and 
in  the  shadow  of  the  mast  there  is  a  dark  man.  What 
does  he  growl  to  himself?  "  It  is  too  still  to-night !  " 
So  the  life  of  the  Spanish  widow  was  spared  for  that 
night.  Matt  went  to  sleep  at  last,  and  had  a  dream 
of  her  which  frightened  him,  but  did  not  shake  his 
purpose  to  murder  her.  "  The  gold  will  make  all 
whole,"  he  said. 


150  Poets'  Homes. 

Another  night  came,  and  he  made  a  sign  to  his 
men,  who  crept  down  into  the  cabin  like  shadows. 
Suddenly  there  were  shrieks  and  fiendish  yells.  The 
servants  of  the  widow  were  stabbed  in  their  sleep. 
The  cabin  lamp  shone  on  pale  dead  men,  on  quick, 
fierce  eyes,  on  hands  dripping  with  blood.  A  dash, 
and  they  forced  the  door  of  the  lady's  cabin.  There 
was  a  long,  shill,  piercing  scream.  It  ceased,  and 
like  a  flash  of  lightning  a  loose-robed  form  with 
streaming  hair  shot  by.  A  leap,  a  splash,  and  it  was 
gone !  Lee  stood  like  one  lost.  Was  it  a  spirit  that 
passed  him  ?  There  was  no  tread  on  the  deck.  Who 
heard  any  ?  Poor  girl !  And  she  is  drowned  !  Did 
she  go  down  into  the  depths  ?  How  dark  they  looked, 
and  cold  !  When  he  came  to  himself  they  brought  up 
the  dead,  and  threw  them  overboard.  "  We  must  not 
be  betrayed,"  said  Lee.  "An  ass,  it  is  said,  once 
brayed  strange  words.  There  is  a  horse  on  board, 
her  horse,  and  he  is  not  to  be  trusted.  We  will  throw 
him  in  the  waves  alive.  He  will  swim."  They  threw 
the  horse  into  the  sea,  and  a  shriek  such  as  never 
came  to  mortal  ears  rang  over  the  waters.  He  drifted 
away  at  last  out  of  sight,  but  they  heard  his  dreadful 
cry  all  night. 

When  morning  came  they  washed  away  the  blood 
stains  and  divided  the  booty.  They  sang  and  swore 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  151 

and  gambled,  they  laughed  and  drank  and  fought. 
One  stormy  night  the  dwellers  on  the  island  I  told 
you  of  at  the  beginning  saw  boats  making  for  the 
shore.  The  next  day  at  noon  the  people  of  the  town 
were  startled  by  the  appearance  of  Lee  and  his  men. 
"  Here  comes  Lee !  "  the  boys  shouted.  "  Where's 
your  ship,  Lee  ?  " 

"  It  took  fire  by  chance  one  night,  not  many  leagues 
from  shore." 

This  was  all  they  learned. 

They  were  flush  of  gold,  —  those  grim  pirates. 

"  You  didn't  lose  your  cargo,  then,  Lee  ? " 

"No,  heaven  prospers  true  men.  Forsake  your 
evil  ways,  as  we  forsook  ours  and  took  to  honest 
courses." 

So  the  godless  wretch  mocked  them.  After  that 
he  lorded  it  through  the  island.  The  people  dreaded 
his  power  and  his  smile,  and  none  went  within  his 
door,  None,  that  is,  except  those  who  had  dipped 
their  hands  in  blood  with  him,  and  laughed  to  see  the 
white  horse  swim. 

When  the  anniversary  of  the  murder  came  round 
they  feasted  and  caroused  together  till  near  midnight 

But  what  means  that  red  light  on  the  waters  ?  A 
ship,  and  all  on  fire,  —  hull,  yards  and  masts,  and  her 
sheets  are  sheets  of  flame!  They  gazed  on  each 


152  Poets'  Homes, 

other  in  dumb  amazement  as  she  rode  on,  shedding 
a  wild  and  lurid  light  around  the  cove.  It  scared  the 
sea-birds  from  their  nests ;  they  darted  and  wheeled 
around  with  despairing  screams.  What  is  that  com 
ing  above  the  waves  so  ghastly  white  ?  It  is  a  spectre 
horse  !  He  gains  the  sands,  his  ghostly  sides  stream 
ing  with  cold  blue  light,  and  his  path  shining  like  the 
wake  of  a  ship.  Now  he  is  at  Lee's  door,  where  he 
sends  up  a  neigh  which  rings  along  the  sky  and  jars 
the  shore.  The  revelers  know  the  sound,  and  their 
flushed  cheeks  turn  pale  with  fear.  Lee  drops  his 
cup ;  his  lips  are  stiff  with  fright.  Sit  down,  Lee,  it 
is  your  banquet  night ! 

The  shadow  stands  with  his  hoofs  on  the  door-stone 
of  Lee's  house.  His  hair  rises  as  its  cold  breath 
chills  his  frame,  and  a  voice  within  him  bids  him 
mount  the  horse.  He  mounts  it,  and  is  borne  with 
speed  and  dread  to  the  hanging  steep.  It  stops  sud 
denly,  with  its  feet  on  the  verge,  where  it  stands  like 
marble.  A  tall  ship  is  burning,  —  a  mass  of  red-hot 
spars  and  crackling  flame.  She  burns  up,  and  yet  is 
the  same : 

"  Her  hot,  red  flame  is  beating  all  the  night 

On  man  and  horse,  in  their  cold  phosphor  light." 

The  fearful  man  sat  looking  through  this  cold  light 
on  the  burning  ship.  What  do  you  see,  Lee  ? 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  153 

"  I  look  where  mortal  man  may  not, 

Into  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 
I  see  the  dead,  long,  long  forgot, 

1  see  them  in  their  sleep. 

A  dreadful  power  is  mine,  which  none  can  know, 
Save  him  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death  and  woe." 

The  low,  far  west  is  bright  no  more.  No  sound  is 
heard  at  sea  or  along  the  shore  but  the  cry  of  a  pass 
ing  bird. 

"  Now  long  that  thick,  red  light  has  shone 
On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still  bay, 
On  man  and  horse  that  seem  of  stone, 

So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  lurid  fire  less  fiercely  burns : 
The  night  is  going  —  faint,  gray  dawn  returns. 

"  That  spectre  steed  now  slowly  pales, 

Now  changes  like  a  moonlit  cloud. 
That  thin,  cold  light  now  slowly  fails, 

Which  wrapt  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  ship  and  horse  are  fading  into  air. 
Lee,  'mazed,  alone,  —  see,  Lee  is  standing  there  1 " 

The  morning  air  blows  on  him,  the  waves  dance 
before  him,  and  the  sea-birds  wheel  and  call ;  but  he 
does  not  hear  their  call,  nor  see  the  waves,  nor  feel 
the  breeze.  Noon  comes,  and  the  hot  sun  beats  upon 
his  head,  but  he  heeds  it  not. 

Night  comes,  the  sun  goes  down,  and  the  gull  finds 
her  place  on  shore,  but  there  he  still  stands.  Go 


154  Poets'  Homes, 

home,  Lee,  and  call  your  revelers  round  you.  But 
they  have  fled  from  the  island.  There  was  no  one  to 
meet  him  at  his  house ;  the  chairs  were  empty,  the 
fires  burnt  out.  Everybody  shunned  him.  Children 
stared  after  him,  and  ran  away  frightened  to  their 
homes.  The  crowd  pointed  at  him  and  said  :  "  There 
goes  the  evil  man." 

He  turned  and  cursed  man  and  child.  Terror  and 
madness  drove  him  to  men,  and  hatred  of  man  to 
solitude. 

The  second  anniversary  of  the  murder  came,"  and 
with  it  the  burning  ship,  and  the  spectre  horse,  which 
he  rode  as  before.  The  islanders,  who  began  to  pity 
him,  asked  him  why  he  wandered  so,  and  he  said  he 
wanted  to  go,  but  wanted  to  go  by  land,  and  there  was 
no  way.  They  urged  him  to  go  on  board  a  sloop 
which  they  had,  but  he  said  the  spectre  horse  would 
not  allow  him  to  go  to  sea  except  with  him. 

The  third  anniversary  of  the  murder  came,  and 
\vith  it  the  burning  ship,  which  this  time  burned  up, 
and  settled  in  the  waves.  The  spectre  horse  rose 
from  where  it  sank  : 

"  He  treads  the  waters  as  a  solid  floor  : 

He's  moving  on.     Lee  waits  him  at  the  door." 

•  He  pleads  that  he  did  not  do  the  deed  alone,  but 
he  pleads  in  vain.  His  time  has  come,  the  spectre 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  155 

horse  tells  him,  and   he  must  go.     He  mounts  the 
horse  again,  and  is  borne  to  the  sea. 

"  He's  on  the  beach ;  he  stops  not  there. 
He's  on  the  seal     Lee,  quit  the  horse ! 
Lee  struggles  hard — 'tis  mad  despair! 

Tis  vain.    The  spirit  corse 
Holds  him  by  fearful  spell ;  —  he  cannot  leap. 
Within  that  horrid  light  he  rides  the  deep. 

"  It  lights  the  sea  around  their  track  — 

The  curling  comb,  the  dark  steel  wave ; 
There,  yet,  sits  Lee  the  spectre's  back  — 

Gone,  gone,  and  none  to  save  I 
They're  seen  no  more  ;  the  night  hath  shut  them  in. 
May  heaven  have  pity  on  thee,  man  of  sin  1 

"  The  earth  hath  washed  away  its  stain, 

The  sealed-up  sky  is  breaking  forth, 
Mustering  its  glorious  hosts  again, 

From  the  fair  south  and  north. 
The  climbing  moon  plays  on  the  rippling  sea. 
—  O,  whither  on  its  waters  rideth  Lee?" 

Such  is  the  outline  of  "  The  Buccaneer,"  which 
could  only  have  been  written  by  one  familiar  with  the 
wild  and  rugged  coast  scenery  of  New  England,  and 
the  ever-changing  waters  of  the  Atlantic.  No  poet 
in  America  but  Mr.  Dana  could  have  written  it,  for 
no  other  poet  in  America  possesses  his  knowledge  of 
and  love  for  the  sea.  It  grew  out  of  his  early  life  at 
Newport,  and  of  his  years  of  summer  residence  in 
his  country  house  near  Cape  Ann. 

His  house  stands  on  the  south  side  of  Cape  Ann, 


156  Poets'  Homes. 

in  full  sight  of  the  ocean.  The  lawn  upon  which  it 
stands  shelves  off  a  few  rods  in  front  of  it,  in  a  steep, 
gravelly  cliff,  about  sixty  feet  above  a  sandy  beach. 
The  remains  of  an  old  wall  covered  with  bushes  and 
low  trees  fringe  the  edge  of  this  cliff,  a  wild  growth, 
which  descends  its  face  to  the  beach  below.  The 
beach,  which  is  nearly  a  perfect  semi-circle,  is  isolated, 
on  the  right  by  a  projecting  ledge,  which  runs  out  be 
yond  it  into  the  sea,  and  is  called  "Eagle  Head,"  and 
on  the  left  by  the  precipitous  base  of  a  hill,  which 
bears  the  ominous  name  of  "  Shark's  Mouth."  The 
house  stands  nearly  south,  on  a  line  with  the  beach, 
and  is  sheltered  on  the  north  by  a  hill  covered  with  a 
thick  growth  of  old  trees.  A  further  shelter  from  the 
cold  winds  is  a  high  wooded  island,  which  lies  a  hun 
dred  rods  or  so  from  the  base  of  the  hill,  and  belongs 
to  the  estate  of  Mr.  Dana,  who  has  an  island  of  his 
own,  as  well  as  Matt  Lee,  and  a  horse,  too,  though 
not  such  a  spectral  one  as  carried  that  grim  old  pirate 
to  destruction.  Of  course  I  mean  the  horse  which  all 
poets  are  supposed  to  ride  —  Pegasus !  What  else 
could  I  mean? 

Mr.  Dana  sold  a  portion  of  the  estate  which  he 
inherited  at  Cambridge,  and  bought  this  place,  and 
built  a  house  upon  it.  The  grounds  formerly  belonged 
to  a  ship-master,  of  whom  there  was  a  tradition  that 
he  had  buried  doubloons  somewhere  about  there, which 


Richard  Henry  Dana.  157 

money-diggers  have  tried  to  find,  but  without  success. 

Mr.  Dana's  estate  contains  about  a  hundred  acres 
of  woods,  beach,  rocks,  island  and  arable  land. 
The  trees,  as  I  have  said,  grow  quite  down  to  the 
beach,  and  one  may  stand  under  their  thick  foli 
age,  with  flowers  under  feet,  and  throw  pebbles  into 
the  ocean,  as  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Dana  has  often 
done,  with  his  grandchildren. 

It  is  a  magnificent  site  for  the  house  of  a  poet  who 
loves  the  sea  as  Mr.  Dana  does.  From  his  windows 
on  the  right  he  can  see  the  light-houses  at  the  entrance 
of  the  harbors  of  Salem,  Boston  and  Marblehead. 
That  rocky  headland  to  the  eastward  is  "  Norman's 
Woe,"  about  which  Mr.  Longfellow  has  made  a  ballad, 
Mr.  Dana,  poet-like,  has  left  his  place  in  the  some 
what  wild  state  it  was  in  when  he  purchased  it.  There 
are  crows  there,  and  hawks,  and  occasionally  he  is 
visited  by  an  eagle.  The  little  bird  that  he  has  im 
mortalized  in  one  of  his  poems  is  plentiful  there. 
You  know  the  poem,  of  course.  No  ?  Then  I  advise 
you  to  get  an  older  reader  than  yourself  to  show  it  to 
you.  Make  your  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Dana  through 
"The  Little  Beach  Bird,"  and  read  at  a  later  period 
his  powerful  story  of  "The  Buccaneer."  In  the 
meantime  join  with  me  in  honoring  our  venerable 
poet,  and  repeat  with  me  the  words  of  one  of  Dickens' 
characters,  "  Lord,  keep  his  memory  green  1 " 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

THE  name  of  Stoddard  has  not  hitherto  made 
much  stir  in  the  world,  in  arms,  arts,  or  letters. 
Its  derivation  is  doubtful,  though  it  is  believed  by  the 
heralds  to  be  a  corruption  of  the  French  word  Stand 
ard. 

There  is,  or  was  some  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  a 
Scotch  Stoddart,  who  published  a  little  pamphlet  on 
the  family  name,  and  its  different  branches  in  Scot 
land,  especially  his  own  branch,  which  he  traced  back 
through  barons  and  earls  and  princes  to  the  great 
Charlemagne  himself!  Scattered  through  the  p:un- 
phlet  were  the  coats-of-arms,  quarterings,  crests,  and 
what  nots  of  the  Stoddards,  with  Latin  mottoes,  among 
others  "  Post  Nubes  Lux,"  which  is  the  motto  of 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  or  will  be  when  the  dark 
ness  which  has  beclouded  his  fortunes  has  given  place 
to  light.  He  is  the  first  of  his  name  who  has  achieved 
the  slightest  distinction  as  a  writer,  though  Mr.  Aus 
158 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  159 

tin  Allibone  mentions  some  eight  or  ten  who  have 
dabbled  in  literature.  The  only  one  of  the  early 
Stoddards  who  rose  to  the  writing  of  verses  was  Mrs. 
Lavinia  Stoddard,  who  died  comparatively  young,  and 
left  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Soul's  Defiance,"  which 
possesses  considerable  merit,  of  an  old-fashioned 
kind.  Three  later  Stoddards  have  followed  the  per 
nicious  example  of  this  good  dame,  the  Stoddard  of 
whom  we  purpose  to  write,  and  who  has  been  more  or 
less  known  as  a  poet  for  upwards  of  thirty  years,  Mr. 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  a  young  Californian,  with 
the  same  and  other  intellectual  weaknesses,  and  Mr. 
William  O.  Stoddard,  poet,  journalist,  and,  during  the 
late  war,  one  of  the  private  secretaries  of  President 
Lincoln. 

His  poetic  namesakes  are  a  source  of  constant  an 
noyance  to  our  Stoddard,  who  frankly  says  that  he 
can  write  all  the  bad  verse  which  the  name  is  capable 
of  supporting,  and  who  has  no  wish  to  rob  his  fellows 
of  their  laurels. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Stoddard  figures  in  the  town 
records  of  Hingham,  Mass.,  the  town  in  which  he 
was  born,  as  early  as  1638.  Who  the  first  emigrant 
was  he  has  no  means  of  knowing,  and  if  he  had,  his 
want  of  curiosity  would  probably  prevent  his  looking 
into  the  antecedents  of  his  ancestors.  His  feeling,  if 


160  Ports'  Homss. 

he  has  any,  may  be  summed  up  in  the  lines  of  the 
old  poet : 


"  Tis  poor,  and  not  becoming  perfect  gentry, 
To  build  their  glories  at  their  fathers'  cost ; 
But  at  their  own  expense  of  blood  or  virtue 
To  raise  them  living  monuments.     Our  birth 
Is  not  our  own  act ;  honor  upon  trust 
Our  ill  deeds  forfeit,  and  the  wealthy  sums 
Purchased  by  other's  fame  or  sweat  will  be 
Our  stain ;  for  we  inherit  nothing  truly 
But  what  our  actions  make  us  worthy  of." 


Mr.  Stoddard's  immediate  ancestors  were  sea-faring 
men,  his  grandfather  Ichabod  Stoddard  having  sailed 
from  Hingham  to  coastwise  ports  for  many  years. 
He  had  three  sons,  Ichabod,  Martin  and  Reuben,  who 
followed  the  sea,  which  was  "the  wild  and  wandering 
grave  "  of  the  two  last.  Reuben  Stoddard,  the  father 
of  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  was  a  remarkable  man. 
He  determined  not  to  grow  up  in  ignorance,  as  his 
father  had  done,  and  his  brothers  were  doing,  but  to 
have  an  education,  cost  what  it  would. 

He  obtained  his  time  of  his  father,  who  according 
to  the  usage  of  sixty  years  ago  had  a  right  to  it  until 
he  was  twenty-one,  and  ran  in  debt  for  his  schooling, 
which  was  practical  rather  than  profound.  He  rose 
rapidly  in  his  profession,  and  was  soon  master  and 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


161 


part  owner  of  the  brig  Royal  Arch.     About  this  time 
he  became  the  master  and   entire  owner  of  a  gallant 


R.    H.    STODDARD. 

little  craft  named  Sophia  Gurney.  Where  Captain, 
or  maybe  Mate,  Stoddard  met  Miss  Gurney  the  His 
toric  Muse  does  not  relate. 

She  was  one  of  a  family  of  at  least  four  sons  and 
four  daughters,   and  was  born  at   Abington,   Mass., 


162  Poets'  Homes. 

about  ten  miles  south  of  Hingham.  She  was  re 
markably  beautiful,  and  tolerably  ignorant.  Her 
father,  Thomas  Gurney,  was  a  man  who  had  seen 
better  days  at  one  time  or  another,  but  eight  strap 
ping  children,  with  scriptural  and  sylvan  names,  by 
his  first  wife,  and  three  more  by  his  second  wife,  pre 
vented  his  rising  in  the  world.  He  was  poor,  but  so 
respectable  that  he  was  called  Deacon  ;  if  he  had  a 
weakness  it  was  for  swapping  horses,  and  he  managed 
it  so  that  he  always  got  a  little  money  by  the  exchange, 
and  generally  got  a  worse  horse.  He  would  have 
swapped  steeds  with  the  Spectre  Horseman  if  his 
"  ter  boot  "  had  teen  satisfactory. 

Reuben  Stoddard  met  Sophia  Gurney,  loved  her, 
married  her,  and  went  away  on  voyages  in  the  Royal 
Arch. 

Three  children  were  born  to  them,  a  son  Charles 
and  a  daughter  Mary,  both  of  whom  died  in  infancy, 
and  a  second  son,  Richard  Henry. 

About  fifty  years  ago,  while  all  his  children  were 
alive,  Captain  Stoddard  went  on  board  the  Royal 
Arch,  and,  the  crew  making  sail  and  weighing  anchor, 
he  started  for  New  York.  He  remained  there  several 
days,  and,  weighing  anchor  once  more,  sailed  away  for 
the  port  of  Gottenburg,  Sweden. 

Weeks,  months  elapsed,  and  no  tidings  of  the  Royal 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  163 

Arch  reached  the  owners.  She  was  not  spoken  at 
sea  ;  no  vessel  passed  her  j  she  was  never  more  heard 
of !  A  boat  that  was  thought  to  be  hers  was  picked 
up  somewhere,  but  no  timber  from  her  was  ever 
washed  ashore.  It  was  winter  at  the  time,  and  the 
supposition  was  that  she  encountered  an  iceberg  at 
night,  and  was  sunk  by  the  toppling  mass.  However 
this  may  have  been,  Captain  Stoddard's  young  wife 
was  left  a  widow,  with  three  little  children  to  take 
care  of. 

She  was  ill,  but  she  rose  from  her  bed,  like  the 
resolute  woman  she  was,  and  began  her  life  of  widow 
hood.  It  was  a  tragic  one,  for  two  of  her  children 
died,  and  by  some  hocus  pocus,  which  she  never  un 
derstood,  she  was  cheated  out  of  her  dead  husband's 
share  of  the  "  fatal  and  perfidious  bark"  in  which  he 
was  lost.  Her  father  was  too  poor  to  help  her,  for 
swapping  horses  was  not  a  very  remunerative  pursuit, 
but  she  found  a  home  in  the  house  of  her  husband's 
father,  where  she  devoted  herself  to  the  education  of 
her  boy,  who  never  remembered  learning  to  read, 
though  writing  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

The  recollections  of  a  child  are  seldom  so  separa 
ble  from  each  other  that  they  can  be  arranged  chron 
ologically.  Mr.  Stoddard's  earliest  recollections 
place  him  in  the  first  storey  of  his  grandfather's  house 


164  Poets'  Homes. 

in  Hingham,  —  a  boy  of  five  or  six,  now  teaming  the 
hymns  of  Dr.  Watts,  and  now  reciting  the  hymn  be 
ginning  : 

"  The  day  is  past  and  gone." 

This  picture  gives  place  to  a  high-backed  pew  in 
Dr.  Richardson's  church,  as  it  was  then  called,  which 
stood  on  a  hill  opposite  the  Stoddard  house.  This 
hill  was  separated  from  the  lower  end  of  the  town 
by  a  little  inlet  or  "  wash  "  of  the  sea,  and  had  been 
the  burying-ground  of  Hingham  time  out  of  mind. 
The  church  was  one  of  the  oldest  in  New  Eng 
land. 

The  fatherless  boy  was  so  delicate  that  his  life  was 
despaired  of.  He  was  considered  clever,  —  a  show- 
child,  who  was  expected  to  speak  a  piece  when  called 
upon,  and  who  was  pointed  out  among  the  towns 
people  as  "  Reuben  s  boy."  His  uncles  were  kind  to 
him,  and  his  grandfather  was  fond  of  him.  As  a 
great  treat  he  was  once  allowed  to  accompany  his 
grandfather  to  Cohasset,  where  a  hotel  was  being 
built,  and,  as  a  greater  treat,  he  was  allowed  to  go  to 
Boston  with  him  in  his  schooner. 

Widow  Stoddard  was  of  a  roving,  restless  disposi 
tion,  and  the  slightest  thing  was  sufficient  to  make 
her  change  her  residence.  Her  relatives,  who  were 
as  poor  as  herself,  moved  nomadically  from  factory 
town  to  factory  town,  and  she  frequently  accompanied 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  165 

them  with  her  boy,  who  still  has  kaleidoscopic  glimpses 
of  Taunton,  Valley  Falls  and  Providence,  —  glimpses 
of  factory  interiors,  of  carding-rooms,  spinning-rooms, 
weaving-rooms,  and  mule-rooms,  —  the  slipping  of 
leather  bands  over  revolving  wheels,  the  whizzing  of 
spindles,  —  clatter,  clatter,  clatter. 

Mixed  with  these  are  glimpses  of  Scituate,  Bridge- 
water,  Braintree  and  Abington.  He  remembers  to 
have  spent  two  summers  and  at  least  one  winter  at 
Abington,  where  he  went  to  school  for  the  first  time, 
and  where  the  towns-people  were  frightened  by  a  tran 
sit  of  Venus,  or  Mercury,  or  some  other  astronomical 
occurrence,  which  they  thought  portended  the  End  of 
the  World ! 

At  last  his  mother  went  to  Boston  with  him, 
and  opened  a  little  shop  at  the  foot  of  Hanover 
Street,  near  the  ship-yards,  which  were  convenient  for 
the  gathering  of  chips.  He  was  sick  one  whole  win 
ter  with  the  rheumatism,  and  so  helpless  that  he  had 
to  be  lifted  in  and  out  of  bed.  His  mother  main 
tained  herself  and  him  —  that  is,  she  kept  body  and 
soul  together  in  both — by  making  "slop-work"  for 
the  Jews,  who  supplied  sailors  with  clothing  at  exor 
bitant  rates.  The  poor  woman  used  to  sit  up  and 
work  all  night,  and  morning  used  to  find  her  asleep  in 
her  chair. 

By  and  by  Widow  Stoddard  made  the  acquaintance 


1 66  Poets'  Homes. 

of  a  sea-faring-man  of  about  her  own  age,  thirty-two, 
and,  to  better  her  condition  and  that  of  her  son,  she 
married  him.  "  Reuben's  boy  "  had  another  father. 
He  was  a  kind-hearted,  well-meaning  man,  without 
the  art  of  getting  on  in  the  world,  and  such  he  con 
tinued  to  the  day  of  his  death,  some  thirty-six  years 
later.  He  worked  awhile  in  Boston  as  a  stevedore, 
and  then  migrated  to  Providence,  where  a  railroad  was 
being  made. 

His  family  followed  him  as  far  as  Seakonk,  where 
the  re-fathered  boy  went  to  work  in  a  cotton  factory. 
His  step-father  paid  a  visit  to  his  relatives  in  New 
York,  and  the  brilliant  prospects  which  were  held  out 
to  him  determined  him  to  remove  thither.  He 
brought  his  household  stuff  to  Providence  one  autumn 
day,  and  shipped  it  on  board  a  packet,  and,  with  the 
hostages  he  had  accepted  of  fortune — a  wife  in  her 
thirties,  and  a  boy  in  his  eleventh  year,  —  sailed  for  the 
city  of  his  nativity,  which  he  reached  after  a  stormy 
passage  of  two  days. 

They  landed  at  or  near  the  Battery  of  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  wandered  up  Broadway,  which  was 
swarming  with  hogs.  There  was  not  much  to  choose 
between  the  relatives  of  his  mother  and  the  relatives 
of  his  step-father,  for  they  were  poor  on  both  sides, 
so  the  boy  was  not  benefited  by  his  change  of  resi 
dence. 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  167 

His  early  recollections  of  New  York  are  not  over 
and  above  pleasant,  for  they  connect  themselves  with 
his  stepfather's  family,  who  were  just  the  people  not 
to  know,  and  who  were  the  cause  of  his  being  sent 
into  the  street  to  sell  matches.  He  has  some  pleas 
ant  memories  of  this  period,  however,  for  the  great 
fire  of  1835  occurred,  and  he  was  taken  to  see  the 
smoking  ruins ;  and,  the  circumstances  of  the  family 
mending,  he  was  sent  for  a  time  to  a  pay  school, 
where  the  reading-book  was  Weems's  Life  of  Marion. 
Who  that  has  once  read  has  ever  forgotten  the  thrill 
ing  episode  of  the  brave  partisan  leader  offering  the 
British  officer  a  meal  of  roasted  sweet  potatoes  ?  It 
was  the  great  Weems  who  invented  it,  —  the  immortal 
Weems,  who  forged  the  little  hatchet  with  which 
Washington  cut  down  his  father's  cherry-tree  !  Who 
says  that  America  has  no  poet  ? 

Reading  about  Marion  and  Serjeant  Jasper,  and 
the  rule  of  three  and  fractions,  were  the  chief  branches 
of  education  taught  in  this  school,  the  master  of 
which  may  have  been  a  patriot,  though  he  was  cer 
tainly  not  an  arithmetician,  for  he  had  to  "  fish  "  the 
answers  to  sums  out  of  a  Key ! 

From  this  academy  of  polite  learning  the  boy  was 
sent  to  a  public  school,  where  he  learned  nothing, 
though  he  got  his  lessons  by  heart.  He  had  the  rep 
utation  of  being  a  clever  boy,  why,  he  knew  not.  He 


1 68  Poet?  Homes. 

was  a  fluent  reader,  it  is  true,  but  he  was  no  gramma 
rian,  and  no  arithmetician  ;  he  had  no  talent  for 
writing  compositions,  and  was  incapable  of  speaking 
pieces,  though  he  was  compelled  to  do  so. 

The  relation  between  parents  and  children  was 
more  exacting  forty  years  ago  than  it  is  now ;  and 
children  were  taught  to  consider  themselves  nobodies, 
when  the  will  of  their  parents  was  in  question.  Their 
time  was  not  their  own  until  they  were  twenty-one. 
Having  the  law,  so  to  speak,  on  her  side,  and  being 
herself  a  thrifty,  hard-working  woman,  the  mother  of 
"  Reuben's  boy"  resolved,  when  he  was  about  fifteen, 
that  he  was  old  enough  to  earn  money. 

The  morning  papers  were  diligently  searched,  and 
the  columns  devoted  to  "wants"  were  studied  and 
discussed.  Two  lawyers  -were  finally  found  who 
wanted  a  boy,  and  the  future  poet  was  installed  in 
their  offices.  His  salary  was  small  —  less  than  a  dollar 
a  week,  —  but  small  as  it  was  his  mother  allowed  him 
fifty  cents  a  month  oat  of  it,  which  large  sum  was 
thoughtfully  invested  in  books.  He  haunted  old 
book-stalls  after  office  hours,  and  picked  up  bargains 
in  tb'.,  shape  of  odd  volumes,  mostly  of  the  English 
j^ets.  Among  other  poets  whose  acquaintance  he 
made  at  this  time  were  Beattie  and  Falconer.  He 
read  the  story  of  Edwin,  who  was  no  vuigar  minstrel 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  169 

boy,  but  he  could  not  read  the  story  of  Palamon. 
He  could  see  that  Seattle  had  some  claim  to  be  con 
sidered  a  poet,  but  he  could  not  see,  nor  has  he 
ever  been  able  to  see,  what  shadow  of  a  claim  Fal 
coner  had. 

The  law  transacted  in  these  offices  was  mostly 
imaginary,  so  the  young  quill-driver  had  leisure  to 
read  poetry,  and  to  write  it,  too.  It  was  wretched 
stuff,  of  course,  but  he  tried  to  have  it  printed  in  u  The 
New  World,"  a  great  weekly  newspaper,  edited  by 
Park  Benjamin,  who  somehow  didn't  see  the  genius 
of  his  would-be  contributor,  who  sighed  to  himself,  in 
the  words  of  Beattie : 

"  O,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar." 

He  resolved  that  he  would  succeed,  however,  and 
as  a  poet ;  and  in  order  to  do  this  he  would,  if  nec 
essary,  win  a  reputation  first  as  a  writer  of  prose ;  he 
would  make  himself  a  novelist,  like  Dickens,  whose 
"  Master  Humphrey's  clock  "  he  read  every  Saturday 
in  "  The  New  World."  What  would  youth  be  with- 
out«its  ignorance  and  its  aspiration  ? 

The  brace  of  legal  gentlemen  whose  clientless 
offices  were  tenanted  by  our  young  poet  advised  him 
to  study  the  law  as  a  profession,  but  his  modesty  led 
him  to  think  that  he  lacked  the  capacity  to  do  so, 


tfo  Poets'  Homes. 

though  he  would  admit  the  lack  of  no  other  capacity 
whatever!  Was  he  not  that  man  of  men,  a  poet? 
He  saw  a  live  author  in  the  perlieus  of  Themis,  and 
procured  a  specimen  of  his  penmanship.  It  was  the 
novelist  Ingraham,  whose  "  Dancing  Feather  "  he  had 
read  with  delight,  and  who  was  a  little  remiss  with 
his  tailor. 

He  was  a  bright,  pleasant  gentleman,  and  his  little 
lawyer's  note  was  long  treasured  up.  From  law,  for 
which  he  had  no  inclination,  our  dreamer  passed  to 
journalism.  That  is  to  say,  he  became  a  sort  of  facto 
tum  in  the  office  of  a  new  and  shortlived  journal  which 
reported  the  sayings  and  doings  of  Dickens,  who  was 
then  traveling  in  this  country.  This  distant  connection 
with  authorship  brought  him  in  contact  with  another 
author,  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Lewis  Gaylord  Clarke, 
the  editor  of  "  The  Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  who 
was  a  contributor  to  the  journal  in  question.  It 
was  soon  moribund,  and  another  situation  had  to  be 
obtained. 

One  was  found,  or  made.  It  was  in  a  tailor's  shop, 
where  the  aspiring  rhymster  cooled  his  natural  ardor 
by  sponging  cloth,  and  encouraged  his  propensity  for 
commerce  by  selling  slop  clothes  to  sailors.  He 
was  next  installed  as  book-keeper  in  a  bankrupt  brush 
and  bellows  factory.  From  this  he  was  transplanted 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  171 

to  an  occupation  for  which  he  was  most  unfit  in  that  it 
demanded  what  he  never  posessed  — physical  strength 
and  endurance. 

What  his  mother  was  thinking  of  when  she  sent 
him  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  blacksmith,  he  never 
knew;  but  send  him  she  did,  and  he  tried  to  learn 
the  trade,  but  without  success.  He  was  put  at  once 
at  the  anvil,  and  before  the  day  was  over  his  right 
hand  was  so  blistered  that  he  had  to  open  its  fingers 
with  his  left  hand,  and  detach  them  from  the  handle 
of  the  sledge  hammer  that  he  wielded. 

Clearly  he  was  not  intended  for  a  blacksmith. 
Even  his  mother  saw  that  at  the  end  of  three  or  four 
days,  and  allowed  him  to  find  lighter  employment. 
It  came  to  him,  he  never  quite  knew  how,  in  the 
shape  of  iron  moulding,  which  he  was  apprenticed  to 
learn,  and  which  he  did  learn  from  his  eighteenth  to 
his  twenty-first  year. 

1 1  was  hard  work  for  a  delicate  boy,  but  it  had  to 
be  done*  for  his  family  was  poor,  and  idleness  was 
discouraged.  He  had  one  consolation  which  could 
not  be  taken  from  him  ;  the  day  would  end,  night 
would  come,  and  he  could  write  poetry.  It  was  sorry 
stuff,  and  no  one  knew  it  better  than  he,  but  it  gave 
him  pleasure,  and  offended  no  one.  He  never  offered 
it  for  publication,  he  was  not  vain  enough  for  that; 


i"j2  Poets'  Homes. 

but  when  it  had  served  its  turn  and  he  was  beyond  it, 
he  wisely  committed  it  to  the  flames.  Such  was  the 
life  of  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  down  to  his  twenty- 
second  year. 

Just  about  the  time  when  the  first  Stoddard  or 
Stoddards  emigrated  to  New  England,  four  brothers 
named  Barstow  concluded  to  do  the  same.  They 
were  of  a  good  family  in  the  West  Riding  of  York 
shire,  a  family  that  figured  in  other  counties  in  Eng 
land  under  their  original  name  of  Burstow,  one  of 
them,  a  certain  Robert  de  Burstowe,  having  grants 
made  to  him  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Second. 
The  Barstows  came  to  America,  as  most  Englishmen 
of  their  period  did,  in  order  to  better  their  fortunes. 
They  settled  in  Massachusetts,  at  Cambridge,  Water- 
town  and  Dedham,  and  pursued  their  avocations  there 
and  elsewhere.  We  find  them  as  early  as  1660  in 
Hanover,  engaged  in  ship-building  on  the  North 
River,  a  little  stream  which  separates  Hanover  and 
Scituate  from  Pembroke  and  Marshfield.  Before 
many  years  were  over  they  were  settled  in  Mattapoi- 
sett,  a  seaside  town  in  the  same  county  as  Hingham, 
looking  out  on  the  Elizabeth  Islands. 

Here  they  lived,  fathers  and  sons,  and  built  ships 
for  the  whalers  of  New  Bedford,  and  schooners  and 
sloops  for  the  West  India  and  coastwise  traders, — 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard, 


173 


lived,  and  grew  rich  and  died,  and  left  others  of  the 
name  to  succeed  them  and  carry  on  their  business. 


MRS.  R.  H.  STODDARD. 

Here  lived  and  died  two  Gideon  Barstows,  the  last 
of  whom  had  a  son  named  Wilson,  who  married  Miss 
Betsey  Drew  in  his  twenty-third  year,  two  or  three 
years  before  Captain  Reuben  Stoddard  married  Miss 
Sophia  Gurney. 

The    Barstows   were   a  prolific   family,   the  great 


174  Poets'  Homes. 

grand-father  of  Wilson  Barstow  adding  twenty-one 
children  to  the  population  of  his  county,  and  Wil 
son  Barstow  himself  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. 
He  had  nine  children,  of  whom  his  second  daughter, 
Elizabeth,  is  the  sole  survivor.  She  was  born  about 
two  years  before  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  and  that 
their  paths  would  ever  cross  each  other  was  the  most 
unlikely  thing  in  the  world.  They  had  no  possession 
in  common,  except  such  as  was  attached  to  the  sea 
through  their  fathers,  and  that  was  of  the  most  unsub 
stantial  kind.  One  was  drifting 

"Where  dreadful  waves  were  whirled 
About  the  roots  of  the  world," 

the  other  was  alive  and  well,  and  as  surely  a  prosper 
ous  gentleman  as  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  was. 

Elizabeth  Barstow  was  one  of  those  irrepressible 
girls  who  are  sometimes  born  in  staid  Puritan  fami 
lies,  to  puzzle  their  parents,  and  to  be  misunderstood 
Her  spirits  were  high,  and  her  disposition  wilful.  She 
had  a  passion  for  reading,  but  a  great  disinclination 
for  study.  Her  inferiors  shot  past  her  at  school,  and 
she  was  pronounced  a  dunce.  She  was  sent  to  the 
best  educational  establishments  in  New  England,  in 
cluding  the  Wheaton  Female  Seminary  at  Norton,  but 
she  might  as  well  have  remained  at  home  and  rocked 
her  brothers  and  sisters,  who  arrived  pretty  regularly 
at  intervals  of  about  two  years. 


Richard  Henry  Stodda^d.  175 

The  despair  of  her  beautiful  mother,  who  could  not 
help  being  amused  by  her  vagaries,  she  was  the 
pride  of  her  good-natured  father,  who  was  the  mag 
nate  of  the  town  and  looked  up  to  by  his  neighbors. 
She  was  not  approved  of  by  her  schoolmates,  for  she 
would  not  learn ;  besides  she  was  very  handsome. 
They  could  not  imagine  what  men  could  see  to  ad 
mire  in  her. 

She  had  one  friend,  however,  a  notable  man  in  his 
way,  though  he  was  only  the  minister  of  Mattapoisett, 
where  he  was  considered  a  queer  old  fellow.  This 
was  the  Rev.  Thomas  Robbins,  who  was  known  to  an 
tiquarians  as  the  author  of  a  "  Historical  Survey  of 
the  First  Planters  of  New  England,"  and  of  several 
sermons  preached  on  special  occasions.  He  took  a 
fancy  to  Miss  Barstow  when  she  was  a  child,  and 
gave  her  the  range  of  his  library,  which  was  a  large 
one  for  a  country  minister  to  have,  and  which  con 
sisted  chiefly  of  the  classic  works  of  the  last 
century. 

She  read  Addison,  Steele  and  Dr.  Johnson,  —  the 
Tattler,  the  Spectator,  and  the  Rambler ;  the  delect 
able  writings  of  Fielding,  Richardson,  Smollett  and 
Sterne,  — Tristram  Shandy,  Peregrine  Pickle,  Pamela 
and  Tom  Jones.  She  read  Sully's  Memoirs  and  the 
comedies  of  Sheridan ;  if  the  comedies  of  Vanburgh 
and  Congreve  were  there  (  but  it  is  to  be  hoped  not ) 


i  7  6  Poets'  ffomes. 

she  read  those,  too.  She  read  hundreds,  thousands 
of  volumes  in  the  good  doctor's  library  which  was  to 
her  a  liberal  education,  and,  indeed,  the  only  educa 
tion  she  ever  had. 

Such  was  the  life  of  Elizabeth  Barstow  until  her 
sixteenth  birthday,  or  thereabout,  when  she  saw  her 
first  live  author.  It  was  Mr.  William  Gilmore  Simms, 
of  South  Carolina,  poet  and  novelist,  who  was  being 
lionized  at  Great  Barrington,  and  whom  she  was  to 
know  years  afterwards.  He  was  a  shadowy  link  be 
tween  her  and  the  foundry  poet,  if  she  had  only 
known  it,  for  he  wrote  his  poem  of  "  Atalantas " 
in  Hingham,  when  "  Reuben's  boy  "  was  about  seven 
years  old. 

Hingham  was  also  the  residence  of  another  Ameri 
can  poet  in  the  childhood  of  this  boy,  a  Miss  Fran 
ces  Locke,  who  lives  in  our  poetical  annals  as  Mrs. 
Frances  Sargent  Osgood. 

Mr.  Stoddard  had  no  consolation  for  the  hardships 
of  his  foundry  life  except  in  writing  poetry,  or  what 
he  thought  was  poetry.  He  had  one  virtue  not  usually 
possessed  by  young  versifiers,  —  he  was  in  no  hurry 
to  see  himself  in  print.  He  filled  a  good  many  little 
volumes  with  his  metrical  effusions,  of  which  no 
more  than  one  was  ever  extant  at  the  same  time,  for 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  177 

as  fast  as  he  completed  one  he  destroyed  its  prede 
cessor.  Finally  he  wrote  something  which  seemed 
not  too  bad  to  print,  and  printed  it  was  in  a  weekly 
magazine  edited  by  Seba  Smith,  who  was  then  in 
vogue  as  the  author  of  Major  Jack  Downing's  Letters. 
About  this  time  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Rev. 
Ralph  Hoyt,  a  minor  American  poet,  who  conde 
scended  to  read  his  manuscripts,  and  contrived  to 
disgust  him  with  them  and  with  himself.  This  ac 
quaintance  somehow  led  to  his  knowing  Mr.  Park 
Beiijamin,  whose  great  newspaper  he  used  to  read 
when  a  boy  in  the  lawyer's  offices,  and  who  treated 
him  as  an  equal. 

He  sent  one  of  his  little  manuscript  volumes  of 
verse  to  N.  P.  Willis,  the  poet,  who  was  editing  the 
"Home  Journal,"  and  he  was  kind  enough  to  look 
over  it,  and  to  express  his  opinion  of  it. 

"  I  should  think  that  the  writer  of  this  "  (he  wrote 
in  substance)  "  had  genius  enough  to  make  a  reputa 
tion.  Pruning,  trimming  and  condensing  is  necessary 
to  make  it  what  it  should  be,  as  the  same  labor  was 
necessary  to  Byron's  genius,  and  to  Moore's.  It  is 
hard  work  to  do,  and  ill-paid  when  done." 

The  good  opinion  of  Mr.  Willis  encouraged  the 
foundry  poet  to  do  better  work  than  he  had  yet  done. 
He  was  further  encouraged  about  this  time  by  Mr. 


178  Poets'  Homes, 

Lewis  Gaylord  Clarke,  a  genial,  whole-souled  man, 
who  was  anxious  to  bring  forward  young  writers  in 
"  The  Knickerbocker,"  and  not  at  all  anxious  to  pay 
them.  It  was  impecunious  to  all  but  the  editor,  who 
had  to  live,  even  if  his  geniuses  starved. 

A  wiser  and  better  acquaintance  was  next  made, 
and  with  a  notable  writer  and  an  excellent  woman,  Mrs. 
Caroline  M.  Kirkland.  She  was  interested  in  the 
worker  in  iron,  and  as  she  was  editing  a  magazine  at 
the  time  she  published  some  of  his  poems  in  it.  He 
was  a  proud  man  when  he  at  last  earned  ten  dollars 
by  his  genius,  but  a  good  deal  of  a  donkey,  for  he  at 
once  invested  it  in  an  accordeon  for  a  young  person 
with  whom  he  was  infatuated. 

His  first  literary  acquaintance  of  his  own  age  was 
Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  who  had  made  his  first  trip  to 
Europe,  and  had  published  an  account  of  it  in  "  Views 
Afoot,"  and  who  was  one  of  the  editors  of  "The 
Tribune."  The  acquaintance  soon  ripened  into 
friendship,  as  Mr.  Stoddard  has  told  the  readers  of 
"Wide  Awake"  in  his  paper  on  the  home  of  Mr. 
Taylor. 

What  with  writing  in  Mrs.  Kirkland's  magazine, 
"The  Knickerbocker,"  and  other  periodicals,  the 
simple-minded  purchaser  of  accordeons  saved  up 
enough  money  to  do  another  foolish  thing,  namely : 
to  publish  a  little  volume  of  his  own  verses. 


Richard  Henry  StoddarA.  179 

He  called  them  "  Footprints."  They  were  pleasantly 
noticed  in  two  or  three  magazines;  one  copy  was 
sold ;  the  edition  was  committed  to  the  flames,  and 
there  the  matter  ended.  The  foot  of  the  young  poet 
left  no  print  on  the  sands  of  time,  but  many  weary 
prints  on  the  wet  sands  of  the  hated  foundry.  The 
publication  of  his  little  volume,  failure  though  it  was, 
made  him  somewhat  known  among  literary  people.  It 
introduced  him  to  the  notice  of  the  great  Dr.  Rufus 
Griswold,  who  sat  like  another  Apollo  on  the  summit 
of  Parnassus,  and  dispensed  crowns  to  the  poets  of 
America, 

"  Who  wept  with  delight  when  he  gave  them  a  smile, 
And  trembled  with  fear  at  his  frown." 

He  put  the  author  of  "  Footprints  "  in  a  new  edi 
tion  of  his  "  Poets  of  America,"  and  told  the  little 
story  of  his  life,  more  beautifully  than  I  could  ever 
hope  to,  complimenting  him  on  a  quality  which  he 
never  possessed,  "indomitable  energy,"  and  on  the 
impossible  art  of  moulding  his  thoughts  into  the 
symmetry  of  verse,  while  he  moulded  the  molten 
metal  into  shapes  of  grace.  He  was  a  fine  writer, 
was  Dr.  Griswold,  and  a  judicious  critic,  but  a  knowl 
edge  of  foundries  was  not  one  of  his  strong  points. 
He  meant  well,  however,  and  was  friendly  to  the  young 
man,  whom  he  introduced  to  the  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  of 
the  period,  a  young  unmarried  lady  of  Celtic  and 


180  Poets"  Homes. 

American  extraction,  who  wrote  poetry  and  gave  lit 
erary  reunions.  There  he  became  acquainted  with 
an  elderly  young  woman  who  was  somehow  a  friend 
of  Miss  Elizabeth  Barstow,  of  Mattapoisett,  Mass., 
whom  he  ought  to  know.  He  bowed,  no  doubt,  at  the 
distinction  in  store  for  him,  for  was  it  not  a  distinction 
for  the  son  of  a  sailor  to  know  the  daughter  of  a 
ship-builder  ? 

They  finally  met  one  summer  evening  at  the  house 
of  the  elderly  young  person,  but  nothing  remarkable 
happened.  It  never  does  when  it  is  expected  to,  and 
when  match-making  minds  try  to  lead  up  to  it.  Mr. 
Stoddard  and  Miss  Barstow  were  not  apparently  suited 
to  each  other.  He  was  a  penniless  young  man  of 
twenty-five,  good-looking,  it  was  thought,  with  a  knack 
at  writing  verses,  but  ill-dressed,  careless  in  his  per 
sonal  appearance,  and  with  no  manners  to  speak  of. 
She  was  a  young  woman  of  about  the  same  age,  was 
handsome,  though  a  little  faded,  had  a  sharp  tongue 
and  off-hand  ways,  a  determination  of  her  own,  and 
had  been  accustomed  to  be  tenderly  cared  for  all  her 
life.  The  only  thing  they  shared  in  common  was 
love  of  books. 

The  young  lady  invited  the  young  singer  to  her 
father's  house  at  Mattapoisett,  to  spend  the  Fourth  of 
July.  They  read  and  talked  and  walked  and  rode 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  181 

together,  and  very  odd  riding  it  was  on  his  part,  for 
he  had  not  been  on  the  back  of  a  horse  since  he  was 
a  boy  in  Abington.  The  something  that  was  expected 
to  happen  before  happened  now,  neither  quite  knew 
how.  He  thought  that  he  had  lost  his  heart,  as  the 
saying  is :  she  knew  that  she  had  not  lost  hers,  but 
she  rather  liked  him,  if  only  for  his  simplicity. 

To  cut  the  matter  short,  for  courtship  is  a  flat 
affair,  outside  of  novels,  they  made  up  such  minds  as 
they  had  that  they  might  possibly  do  worse  than  to 
marry  each  other. 

So  they  went  off  together  one  December  morning, 
in  New  York,  and  wandered  into  a  fold,  the  shepherd 
of  which  consented  to  unite  these  lost  lambs.  In 
other  words,  they  went  to  the  Church  of  the  Good 
Shepherd,  the  pastor  of  which  was  the  Rev.  Ralph 
Hoyt,  who  found  it  easier  to  marry  the  poet  than  to 
praise  his  verses. 

I  don't  know  how  the  young  husband  and  wife  felt 
when  they  were  made  one,  but  I  know  what  the  old 
dramatist  Middleton  wrote  about  the  feelings  of  a 
husband,  and  I  hope  his  beautiful  lines  reflect  the 
feelings  of  the  Stoddards  at  this  and  all  later  times. 
Here  they  are. 

"I Tow  near  am  I  now  to  a  hnppiness 
That  earth  exceeds  not  I  not  another  like  it 


182  Poets'1  Homes. 

The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth  I 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter." 

Before  Mr.  Stoddard  had  married  he  had  become 
acquainted  with  that  incomparable  writer,  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne.  He  met  him  in  his  own  house  at  Con 
cord  with  a  party  of  friends,  one  of  whom  had  come 
to  talk  with  him  about  his  old  college  chum,  Franklin 
Pierce,  who  was  a  candidate  for  the  Presidency,  and 
whose  Life  he  was  to  write.  Mr.  Pierce  was  elected, 
and  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Hawthorne  that  a  young  poet 
who  had  married  on  nothing  a  year  might  like  a  sit 
uation  in  the  New  York  Custom  House,  so  he  ob 
tained  one  for  him. 

He  entered  upon  his  official  life  the  day  before  he 
completed  his  twenty-eighth  year,  and  he  continued  in 
it  for  nearly  seventeen  years,  devoting  the  best  part 
of  his  life  to  a  thankless  government.  He  had 
charge  of  a  room  full  of  the  strangest  codgers  alive ; 
men  fit  for  no  other  duties  than  he  found  or  made  for 
them,  and,  indeed,  most  frequently  unfit  for  those. 
They  were  old,  and  lame,  and  they  were  incapable. 
Most  of  them  had  seen  better  days;  some  of  them 
had  been  rich,  and  one  or  two  had  been  millionaires. 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


183 


Of  this   motley  multitude  he  was  the  guide,  philoso 
pher  and  friend,  —  the  commander-in-chief  of  a  very 


MASTER  LORIMER  STODDARD. 

awkward  squad.     But  he   made  one  friend,  a  young 
gentleman  whose  friendship  he  still  retains. 

Being  married,  as  I  have  said,  he  set  resolutely  to 
to  work  to  learn  the  only  trade  for  which  he  seemed 
fitted  —  literature.  He  couldn't  hope  to  live  by  writing 


184  Poets'  Homes. 

poetry,  so  he  taught  himself  to  write  prose,  and  found 
that  he  was  either  a  slow  teacher,  or  a  slow  scholar, 
probably  both. 

The  habit  of  writing  is  sometimes  catching,  as  his 
wife  finally  discovered  when  she  caught  herself  pen 
ning  little  essays,  and  poems,  and  stories,  which  she 
brought  to  her  husband  in  fear  and  trembling.  She 
had  a  fine  intellect,  but  it  was  untrained,  and  all  that 
he  could  do  for  her  was  to  show  her  how  to  train  it. 
She  was  not  cursed  with  mediocrity,  but  had  the  mis 
fortune  to  be  original.  Her  growth  was  slow  but 
sure.  She  produced  with  labor,  but  what  she  pro 
duced  was  worth  the  labor,  and  to-day  she  is  the  best 
writer  of  blank  verse  of  any  woman  in  America. 

Early  one  June  morning,  in  the  third  year  of  their 
married  life,  the  Stoddards  found  that  a  man-child 
had  been  sent  to  them.  They  thought  him  the  most 
beautiful  boy  that  ever  lived,  and  were  not  alone  in 
thinking  him  so.  His  face  was  as  lovely  as  the  face 
of  one  of  Raphael's  angels ;  his  hair  was  like  sun 
shine,  and  his  eyes  —  there  never  were  such  heavenly 
eyes  before.  The  unfathomable  blue  of  the  summer 
sky  was  shallow  and  pale  beside  them.  And  the 
child  was  as  good  as  he  was  beautiful.  When  he  was 
in  his  second  summer  he  was  taken  down  to  Matta- 
poisett  by  his  mother  and  his  nurse,  and  his  father 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  185 

tried  to  console  himself  during  his  absence  by  writ 
ing  a  poem  about  a  little  picture  which  had  been 
taken  of  him. 

Few  poets'  children  have  been  more  lovingly 
hymned  than  little  Willy  Stoddard  ( he  was  named 
Wilson,  after  a  favorite  brother  of  his  mother's  ),  un 
less  it  was  poor  Hartley  Coleridge  in  the  frosty  mid 
night  musings  of  his  erratic  father. 

"  I  take  his  picture  from  my  knee,"  sang  the  father 
of  little  Willy  Stoddard,  one  hot  summer  night  in 
New  York,  after  he  had  been  thinking  of  him  and  the 
country  house  to  which  he  had  gone: 

"  I  take  his  picture  from  my  knee 
And  press  it  to  my  lips  again  j 
I  see  an  hundred  in  my  brain, 

And  all  of  him,  and  dear  to  me. 

"  He  nestles  in  his  nurse's  arms, 
His  young  eyes  winking  in  the  light ; 
I  hear  his  sudden  shriek  at  night, 

Startled  in  dreams  by  vague  alarms. 

"  We  walk  the  floor,  and  hush  his  moan  ; 
Again  he  sleeps  ;  we  kiss  his  brow , 
I  toss  him  on  my  shoulder  now, 

His  Majesty  is  on  his  throne  ! 

"  His  kingly  clutch  is  in  my  hair  ; 
He  sees  a  rival  in  the  glass  -, 


1 86  Poets'  Homes. 

It  stares  and  passes  as  we  pass  ; 
It  fades.     I  breathe  the  country  air : 

"  I  see  a  cottage  leagues  from  here  ; 
A  garden  near ;  some  orchard  trees  ; 
A  leafy  glimpse  of  creeping  seas  ; 

And  in  the  cottage  something  dear  : 


"  A  square  of  sunlight  on  the  floor, 
Blocked  from  the  window  ;  in  the  squar? 
A  happy  child  with  heavenly  hair, 

To  whom  the  world  is  more  and  more. 


"  He  sees  the  blue  fly  beat  the  pane, 
Buzzing  away  the  noontide  hours  ; 
The  terrace  grass,  the  scattered  flowers, 

The  beetles,  and  the  beads  of  rain. 


"  He  sees  the  gravelled  walks  below, 
The  narrow  arbor  draped  with  vines  ; 
The  light  that  like  an  emerald  shines, 

The  small  bird  hopping  to  and  fro. 

"  He  drinks  their  linked  beauty  in  ; 
They  fill  his  thoughts  with  silent  joy, 
But  now  he  spies  a  late-dropped  toy, 

And  all  his  noisy  pranks  begin. 

"  They  bear  him  to  an  upper  room, 
When  comes  the  eve ;  he  hums  for  me, 
Like  some  voluptuous  drowsy  bee, 

That  shuts  his  wings  in  honied  gloom. 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  187 

"  I  see  a  shadow  in  a  chair ; 
I  see  a  shadowy  cradle  go  ; 
I  hear  a  ditty,  soft  and  low  ; 

The  mother  and  the  child  are  there  1 

"  At  length  the  balm  of  sleep  is  shed  ; 
One  bed  contains  my  bud  and  flower ; 
They  sleep,  and  dream,  and  hour  by  hour 

Goes  by,  while  angels  watch  the  bed. 

"  Sleep  on,  and  dream,  ye  blessed  pair  I 
My  prayers  shall  guard  ye  night  and  day  ; 
Ye  guard  me  so,  ye  make  me  pray, 

Ye  make  my  happy  life  a  prayer  !  " 

Just  before  Willy  Stoddard  was  four  years  old  there 
came  to  keep  him  company  in  the  flowery  garden  of 
childhood,  a  little  brother,  with  the  same  hair  and 
eyes  as  his  own.  He  came  on  earth,  however,  only  to 
leave  it  after  a  few  months'  life.  His  father  em 
balmed  his  innocent  memory  in  two  little  stanzas  : 

"  I  am  followed  by  a  spirit, 

In  my  sorrow,  and  my  mirth ; 
'Tis  the  spirit  of  an  infant, 

Dying  almost  at  its  birth, 
Unlamented,  but  how  dear, 
Since  unseen,  I  know  'tis  near  I 


1  Would,  if  only  for  a  moment, 
As  I  feel  it,  I  could  see. 


1 88  Poets'  Homes. 

In  the  light  of  heavenly  beauty, 

Sitting  on  its  father's  knee  I 
It  would  dry  this  hopeless  tear, 
Dropping  now,  it  is  so  near  1 " 

The  Stoddards  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  their 
way,  he  attending  to  his  daily  duties  in  the  Custom 
House,  and  now  and  then  writing  a  lyric,  just  to  keep 
his  hand  in,  and  she  attending  to  her  duties  as  wife 
and  mother,  and  carefully  cultivating  her  mind.  Her 
powers  struck  deeper  and  shot  higher,  and  her  stories 
of  New  England  life  and  character  were  marked  by 
keen  insight  and  strange  dramatic  power.  No  other 
American  woman  could  have  written  them,  for  their 
like  was  never  written  before,  and  has  never  been 
written  since,  except  by  herself.  The  index  to  "  Har 
per's  Magazine  "  will  tell  you  their  names,  and  where 
to  look  for  them. 

The  ninth  anniversary  of  the  marriage  of  the  Stod 
dards  came  and  went,  and  they  looked  forward,  if  not 
to  happy  days,  which  nobody  could  expect  then,  — 
for  war  had  broken  out  between  the  North  and  South, 
—  at  least  to  a  continuance  of  temperate  happiness. 
Six  or  seven  years  before,  when  Mr.  Stoddard  was 
writing  the  small  poems  that  he  published  under  the 
title  of  "  Songs  of  Summer,"  he  wrote  from  an  imag 
inary  sorrow  a  little  poem  which  he  called  "The 
Shadow."  Here  is  the  first  stanza : 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  189 

"  There  is  but  one  great  sorrow, 

All  over  the  wide,  wide  world  ; 
But  that  in  turn  must  come  to  all  — 
The  Shadow  that  moves  behind  the  pall, 

A  flag  that  never  is  furled  !  " 

The  great  sorrow  of  his  life  came  to  him  in  Decem 
ber,  1861.  His  little  boy  Willy,  who  was  in  his 
seventh  year,  was  taken  ill  on  a  Monday  morning. 
On  Tuesday  morning  his  father  went  down  to  the 
Custom  House  in  order  to  get  excused  for  the  day,  on 
account  of  his  illness.  He  reached  home  early  in  the 
forenoon  and  found  the  boy  —  dead.  A  thunderbolt 
dropped  out  of  heaven  at  his  feet  could  not  have 
startled  him  more  than  this  sudden  taking  off  of  his 
beautiful  one.  There  was  nothing  serious  in  mortal 
ity  to  him  from  that  fatal  day  —  nothing !  For,  as  he 
had  sung  ignorantly  in  "The  Shadow,"  how  igno- 
rantly !  — 

"  'Tis  a  blow  that  we  never  recover, 
A  wound  that  never  will  heal  1 " 

His  friend  Launt  Thompson,  who  had  made  a  me 
dallion  of  the  lad  the  previous  summer,  came  to  the 
house  that  night  and  took  a  cast  of  his  little  dead  hand. 
That  cast,  the  medallion,  and  a  lock  of  curly  golden 
hair,  are  all  that  remind  him  that  his  son  Willy  ever 
lived ;  onlv  these,  and  a  sorrowful  but  immortal  mem- 


tgo  Poet?  Homes. 

ory.  What  was  he  was  taken  to  Mattapoisett  and 
interred  in  an  old  burying-ground  there. 

His  death  nearly  killed  his  mother,  and  if  the  hearts 
of  men  could  break  would  have  broken  the  heart  of  his 
father,  who,  at  a  later  period,  celebrated  his  glorious 
little  life  and  sudden  death  in  the  saddest  verses  that 
he  ever  wrote ;  verses  much  too  sad  for  the  young 
readers  of  "  Wide  Awake  "  to  see. 

One  December  forenoon,  not  quite  two  years  later, 
Mr.  Stoddard,  who  was  excused  as  before  for  the  day, 
sat  down  at  his  table  and  wrote  a  little  poem  about  a 
bird  which  had  flown  to  his  humble  house. 

THE  BIRD. 

•'  Out  of  the  deeps  of  heaven 

A  bird  has  flown  to  my  door, 
As  twice,  in  the  ripening  summers, 

Its  mates  have  flown  before. 

"  Why  it  has  flown  to  my  dwelling, 

Not  it  nor  I  may  know ; 
And  only  the  silent  angels 

Can  tell  when  it  shall  go ! 

"  That  it  will  not  straightway  vanish. 

But  fold  its  wings  with  me, 
And  sing  in  the  greenest  branches 

Till  the  axe  is  laid  to  the  tree, 

"  Is  the  prayer  of  my  love  and  terror, 
For  my  soul  is  sore  distrest, 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  191 

Lest  I  wake  some  dreadful  morning, 
And  find  but  its  empty  nest." 

When  I  mentioned  Mrs.  Stoddard's  poems  and 
stories  I  should  have  spoken  of  her  novels,  "The 
Morgesons,"  "Two  Men,"  and  "Temple  House." 
They  are  the  most  original  and  most  powerful  novels 
ever  written  by  an  American  woman,  and,  like  her 
shorter  stories,  grip  hold  of  the  stern,  hard  realities 
of  New  England  life.  She  has  no  superior,  unless  it 
be  Hawthorne,  as  a  student  of  character,  and  as  a 
delineator  of  live  men  and  women.  She  can  be 
humorous,  and  she  can  be  pathetic.  She  is  thought  to 
have  more  of  the  quality  called  genius  than  her  hus 
band,  who  certainly  has  more  talent  than  she. 

His  poetry  is  his  best  work,  but  one  cannot  live  by 
poetry,  which  must  be  to  most  poets  its  own  exceed 
ing  great  reward.  He  taught  himself  to  write  prose, 
and  produced  two  little  books  for  children,  "  Adven 
tures  in  Fairyland,"  and  "  Town  and  Country."  The 
children  of  twenty  years  ago  liked  them,  though  he 
could  never  bring  himself  to  do  so.  He  wrote  a  "  Life 
of  Humboldt,"  for  which  he  wonders  at  himself  now, 
and  he  edited  a  series  of  "  Bric-a  brae  "  books,  which 
everybody  thought  good.  He  has  contributed  to  all 
the  magazines  in  the  country,  including  "Wide 


192  Poets'  Homes. 

Awake,  and  to  more  newspapers  than  he  can  remem 
ber,  and  on  all  subjects,  except  theology  and  politics. 

I  have  said  nothing  so  far  of  the  little  bird  that 
flew  to  his  door  one  December  forenoon,  fourteen 
years  ago.  He  has  not  flown,  like  his  brother  Willy, 
and  his  nameless  little  brother,  who  died  so  young, 
but  is  as  live  a  bird  to-day  as  any  that  ever  twittered 
from  the  summer  boughs.  He  is  thought  to  be  a 
clever  lad,  is  Master  Lorimer  Stoddard,  though -he  has 
the  good  sense  not  to  think  so  himself.  He;-,  tall 
for  his  age,  slight  of  build,  addicted  to  reading  every 
thing  except  poetry,  for  which  he  cares  nothing, 
greatly  to  the  joy  of  his  father,  who  thinks  that  there 
are  altogether  too  many  poets  now,  especially  Stod- 
Jards.  If  he  has  any  talent,  after  that  of  trying  to 
have  his  own  way  all  the  time,  it  is  probably  for  paint 
ing.  His  father  knows  that  there  are  too  many 
painters,  and  hopes  that  he  will  never  be  one.  His 
mother  called  him  "Lolly  Dinks  "  when  he  was  young, 
and  wrote  an  amusir.g  little  book  about  him,  and  his 
odd  fancies  and  doings. 

As  I  have  given  you  a  glimpse  of  Willy  Stoddard, 
as  his  father  saw  him  in  his  thoughts,  in  his  second 
summer  at  Mattapoisett,  it  is  only  fair  to  Lorry  Stod 
dard  to  give  you  a  glimpse  of  him,  and  his  father  and 
mother,  in  their  home  in  New  York. 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  103 

Here  is  what  he  was  to  his  father  four  years  ago  : 


THE  FOLLOWER. 

*  We  have  a  youngster  in  the  house- 

A.  little  man  of  ten  ; 
Who  dearest  to  his  mother  is 

Of  all  God's  little  men. 
In-doors  and  out  he  clings  to  her, 

He  follows  up  and  down  ; 
He  steals  his  slender  hand  in  hers, 

He  plucks  her  by  the  gown. 
'  Why  do  you  cling  to  me  so,  child  ? 

You  track  me  everywhere ; 
You  never  let  me  be  alone.' 

And  he,  with  serious  air, 
Answered,  as  closer  still  he  drew, 
4  My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you.' 

"Two  years  before  the  boy  was  born, 

Another  child,  of  seven, 
Whom  Heaven  had  lent  to  us  awhile, 

Went  back  again  to  Heaven. 
He  came  to  fill  his  brother's  place, 

And  bless  our  failing  years  ; 
The  good  God  sent  him  down  in  love, 

To  dry  our  useless  tears. 
I  think  so,  mother,  for  I  hear 

In  what  the  child  has  said 
A  meaning  that  he  knows  not  of, 

A  message  from  the  dead. 
He  answered  wiser  than  he  knew, 
'  My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you.' 

"  Come  here,  my  child,  and  sit  with  me 
Your  head  upon  my  breast ; 

You  are  the  last  of  all  my  sons, 
\nd  you  must  be  the  best. 


rg4  Poets"  Homes. 

I  low  much  I  love  you,  you  may  guess 

When,  grown  a  man  like  me, 
You  sit  as  I  am  sitting  now, 

Your  child  upon  your  knee. 
Think  of  me  then,  and  what  I  said 

(And  practiced  when  I  could), 
'Tis  something  to  be  great  and  wise, 

'Tis  better  to  be  good. 
O,  say  to  all  things  good  and  true, 
'  My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you.' 

"Come  here,  my  wife,  and  sit  by  me, 

And  place  your  hand  in  mine 
(And  yours,  my  child),  while  I  have  you 

'Tis  wicked  to  repine. 
We've  had  our  share  of  sorrows,  dear, 

We've  had  our  graves  to  fill ; 
But,  thank  the  good  God  overhead, 

We  have  each  other  still ! 
We've  nothing  in  the  world  beside, 

For  we  are  only  three  ; 
Mother  and  child,  my  wife  and  child, 

How  dear  you  are  to  me  ! 
I  know  —  indeed,  I  always  knew, 
My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you  I  " 

The  Stoddards  live  in  New  York,  as  I  have  said,  in 
an  unpretending  little  house  in  East  Fifteenth  Street. 
If  I  should  attempt  to  characterize  their  home  in  a 
few  words,  I  should  say  that  it  was  nearly  such  a 
home  as  all  authors  ought  to  have.  It  is  plainly  fur 
nished,  but  is  full  of  good  books,  and  good  pictures 
most  of  which  were  painted  by  their  artist  friends. 
The  books  are  all  English,  of  course,  for  the  Stod 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  195 

dards  have  only  such  education  as  they  have  given 
themselves ;  but  they  are  all  good,  "  books  which  are 
books,"  as  Charles  Lamb  used  to  say. 

You  see  what  the  library  looks  like  in  the  spirited 
drawing  which  Mr.  Alexander  Laurie  has  made  of  it, 
though  you  miss  the  color  in  the  rooms,  — in  the  Tur 
key  rug  on  the  floor,  in  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  and 
in  the  china  vases  and  the  like  on  the  mantel  and  the 
writing-desk. 

There  is  another  room  over  the  library  which  is 
full  of  books  and  engravings.  Mr.  Stoddard  keeps 
there  his  collection  of  English  poetry,  new  and  old, 
which  is  an  excellent  one,  his  friends  say  when  they 
consult  it,  as  Mr.  Stedman  did  when  he  was  writing 
his  "Victorian  Poets."  He  keeps  his  autographs 
there  also,  and  his  books  which  once  belonged  to 
great  men.  He  could  show  you,  if  he  would,  the, 
books  of  Byron,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Southey, 
Lamb,  Leigh  Hunt,  Campbell,  Gray,  Pope,  Sterne, 
Churchill,  and  many  more  famous  English  poets ;  and 
he  could  show  you,  if  he  would,  a  mahogany  box  full 
of  manuscripts  from  Cowper  and  Shenstone,  and 
Sheridan  and  Moore,  and  Shelley  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  Burns  and  Barry  Cornwall,  and  Leigh  Hunt 
and  all  the  famous  American  poets  of  the  present 
century.  He  could  also  show  you  the  hair  of  John 
Milton. 


MRS.  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD,  AND 
MISS  MARY  N.  PRESCOTT. 

THE  valley  of  the  Merrimac  is  one  of  the  most 
lovely  and  blessed  regions  on  the  earth.  It  is 
also  one  of  the  best-beloved.  No  one  who  was  not 
bom  beside  its  magic  waters  can  realize  the  intensity  oi 
affection  with  which  the  hearts  of  its  children  cling  to 
these  broad  meadows,  rocky  clefts,  rich  intervales,  and 
wooded  hills.  The  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Merri 
mac  are  found  through  all  the  wide  world,  and  holding 
high  places  in  almost  every  empire ;  yet  the  river  of 
their  childhood  keeps  its  charm  around  them,  and 
wins  them  back,  at  last,  to  sleep  upon  its  shores. 
Like  Whittier,  in  "  Revisited,"  they  come  joyfully, 
chanting : 

"Onct  again,  O  beautiful  river, 

Hear  our  greetings,  and  take  our  thanks  ; 

Hither  we  come,  as  Eastern  pilgrims 
Throng  to  the  Jordan's  sacred  banks." 

196 


Mrs.    Spojford  and  Miss  Prescott.          197 

And  no  one  ever  accuses  us  of  extravagant  love  ;  for 
the  charm  of  our  valley  falls  irresistibly  on  all  who 
enter  its  blooming  borders. 

The  famous  Brissot,  when  standing  on  Pipestave 
Hill ;  the  exiled  Louis  Philippe,  riding  by  the  very 
spot  that  is  our  poets'  home ;  the  late  Chief  Justice 
Chase,  traveling  the  same  road,  —  numbers  of  great 
men,  have  united  in  calling  the  scenery  unsurpassed. 
Bayard  Taylor  —  and  who  has  seen  more  lands  ?  — 
while  gazing  from  Powow  Hill,  a  lofty  mount  pitched 
over  against  the  home  of  Whittier,  says  that  "for 
quiet  beauty  it  excels  anything  I  have  ever  seen." 

From  such  surroundings  poetry  flows  as  naturally 
as  the  river  waters,  and,  while  the  most  luxuriant 
crop  of  the  Merrimac  Valley  has  been  its  noble  men 
and  women,  among  them  all,  its  poets  have  taken  a 
lofty  rank.  Hannah  Gould,  Lucy  Hooper,  and  a  score 
of  tuneful  voices,  have  made  its  beauty  vocal ;  and,  to 
crown  them  all,  most  loved  and  revered,  comes  the 
sweet  and  tender  Quaker  singer,  \Y!iittier. 

But  not  the  least  of  the  glories  of  the  Merrimac  are 
the  two  sisters,  of  whom  I  am  to  tell  you,  and  their 
home. 

On  entering  the  river  from  the  sea,  —  for  our  poets' 
home,  like  Venice,  should  be  approached  by  water,  — 
we  pass  the  sandy  bar  between  walls  of  breakers, 


igS  Poets'  Homes. 

which  form  the  white-lipped  river-mouth.  Once  in 
side,  the  stream  broadens  into  a  great  bay,  and  the 
scene  is  one  of  surpassing  beauty.  On  each  side  the 
fragrant  salt-marshes  stretch  far  back  into  the  coun 
try,  "  the  low,  green  prairies  of  the  sea,"  covered  with 
picturesque  hay-cocks,  standing  on  stilts ;  while  in  and 
out  flow  and  waver  the  Black  Rock  Creek,  and  Plum 
Island  River,  like  winding  gleams  of  light,  —  and  up 
the  wide  stream  lies  the  shining  city  full  in  view. 

Few  sights  are  more  charming  than  that  of  New- 
buryport  from  the  river,  when  the  Eastern  sun  is  glow 
ing  in  its  face.  The  houses  rise  back  from  the  shore, 
tier  beyond  tier,  until  "  The  Ridge  "  is  crowned  with 
stately  mansions,  —  and  all  the  whiteness  is  softened 
by  that  dense  foliage  which  is  the  joy  and  pride  of  the 
city. 

The  tide  is  on  the  flood,  and  sweeps  us  swiftly  along 
the  narrowing  river,  past  three  miles  of  wharves  and 
rambling  buildings ;  past  the  great  ship-yards  (what  po 
etry  there  is  in  a  ship-yard ! )  ;  past  little  islands  with 
quaint  old  houses ; — the  shore  grows  wild  and  rocky, 
hung  thick  with  woods,  —  when  a  sudden  turn 
in  the  river  opens  a  vision  that  is  like  a  dream 
of  fairyland.  Set  against  a  background  of  forest, 
hills,  and  quiet  waters,  lies  a  lovely  island  in  mid 
stream.  From  the  left  hand  of  the  river 


Mrs.    Spojford  and  Miss   Prescott.  199 

a  suspension  bridge  hung  high  overhead  on  immense 
chains ;  while  one,  partly  covered  and  wholly  pictur 
esque,  stretches  away  to  the  Salisbury  shore.  Flank 
ing  the  island,  beyond  it,  and  high  in  air,  the  tower 
of  "Hawkswood  "  peers  over  the  pines,  and  Laurel  Hill 
lifts  up  its  castellated  mansion. 

The  swift  tide  is  parted  by  a  low  point  of  meadow, 
where  the  grass  is  kept  beautifully  bright  and  green 
by  being  afloat  half  the  time ;  and  straight  back  into 
the  heart  of  the  island  opens  a  shadowed  glade. 
God's  glory  rests  on  the  island :  for  it  is  covered  with 
magnificent  pines  and  firs,  "  an  house  not  made  with 
hands,"  worthy  to  be  the  tabernacle  of  the  Lord. 
Hiding  deep  in  this  loveliness,  the  quaint  roof  and 
broad  piazzas  of  a  great  brown  dwelling  throw  out 
their  hints  of  welcome  through  the  trees. 

This  is  Deer  Island,  the  home  of  Mrs.  Harriet 
Prescott  Spofford  and  Miss  Mary  N.  Prescott.  It  is 
the  very  spot  of  which  Whittier  sings  : 

"  Deer  Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset  shadows  o'er  them." 

But  whether  sunset  or  sunrise,  all  who  pass  the 
island,  like  "  Goodman  Macey "  and  his  wife,  must 
come  under  its  delicious  shadows ;  for  all  around  its 
rocky  rim  the  great  pines  drop  their  cones  into  the 
river. 


?<id  Poets'  Homes. 

Let  us  hug  the  bank  and,  drifting  softly  up  the 
stream,  use  neither  oar  nor  sail,  for  we  must  not  scar 
the  burnished  face  of  the  waters.  One  ripple  comes 
by  us  from  the  point,  wavering  and  musical,  but  its 
form  soon  dies  along  the  stream,  and  its  spirit  seems 
to  have  flown  into  the  pines  overhead,  where  it  sings 
in  whispers  — like  one  lulling  a  babe  into  sleep  —  at 
the  faintest  thought  of  a  far-off  breeze. 

The  water  is  a  magic  mirror,  for,  looking  closely  at 
the  reflections,  we  see  through  them  and  beneath 
them,  —  clear  depths,  cool  liquid  nooks  among 
sunken  rocks  waving  their  bright  green  flags  in  the 
rushing  tide. 

A  pebbly  beach  fringes  the  cliffs  for  a  little  way,  — 
the  pines  still  shadow  it,  however ;  a  rustic  seat  peeps 
out  from  the  brink ;  a  heavy  gloom  falls  athwart  the 
river,  and  the  great  bridge  glides  overhead.  Here  a 
bold  rock  thrusts  its  face  over  the  stream,  and  a  great 
fir  on  its  brow  leans  out,  almost  horizontal,  as  if,  like 
Narcissus,  it  was  in  love  with  its  shadow,  and  ready 
to  plunge  into  the  deep  below. 

Sloping  clefts  in  the  rocks  are  cushioned  thick  with 
pine  needles,  and  little  seats  hold  out  their  arms  and 
certainly  say  "  Come." 

In  one  cleft,  near  the  upper  point  of  the  island,  we 
will  moor  our  boat  and  land.  Every  step  now  is  a 


Mrs.    Spojford  and  Miss  Prescott.  201 

delight.  Under  foot  are  delicate  mosses  and  soft 
turf,  and  overhead  the  white  clouds  play  hide-and-seek 
through  the  trees.  The  view  from  this  western  point 
falls  like  the  hush  of  Sabbath  evening  over  the  spirit. 

No  opening  is  seen  in  the  river,  for  half  a  mile  be 
yond  it  makes  a  sudden  bend  to  the  northward.  On 
the  left  bank  the  perfect  beauty  of  "  The  Pines,"  a 
noble  grove,  comes  down  to  bathe  its  feet  in  the 
cooling  waters ;  while,  farther  up  stream,  "  Moulton's 
Castle,"  once  the  home  of  Sir  Edward  Thornton, 
British  Minister  at  Washington,  dominates  the  whole 
landscape  from  its  lofty  perch,  and,  far  beyond,  the 
rolling  hills  of  Amesbury  show  their  serried  fields  of 
corn.  Around  the  foot  of  the  "Castle,"  too,  but 
out  of  sight  from  the  island,  is  the  grove  of  "  The 
Laurels,"  made  famous  by  Whittier  in  several  of  his 
poems.  On  the  Salisbury  bank  of  the  river,  also, 
the  trees  come  down  to  the  water,  but  here  many  oaks 
are  mingled  with  the  pines,  and  the  effect  is  delight 
ful  to  the  eye. 

One  gigantic  pine  stands  on  the  very  point, 
watching  the  bending  river  play  the  tide  ripples 
around  its  feet.  This  is  the  "  Hawkswood  "  estate, 
and  the  tower  of  the  stone  chateau  lifts  its  black  head 
over  the  forest.  It  was  built  by  Rev.  J.  C.  Fletcher, 
the  author  and  lecturer ;  and  here  passed  many  of  the 


202 


Poets'1  Homes. 


girlhood  days  of  his  daughter,  Miss  Julia  Fletcher, 
who  wrote  the  recent  "  Kismet,"  in  the  "No  Name  " 
series. 

Deer  Island  is  seven  acres  large, 
and  we  have  yet  trodden  but 
one  part.  We  will  cross  the 
highway  that  cuts  it  in  twain, 
and  enter  the  grove  on  the 


DEER   ISLAND  SUSPENSION   BRIDGE. 


Mrs.    Spofford  and  Miss    Prescott.  203 

eastern  side.  Just  across  the  river  is  that  perfect 
model  of  a  school  for  boys,  "  Eagle  Nest,"  with  its 
pleasant  grounds,  and  down  the  stream  the  striped 
roofs  of  Eagle  Island's  arbors  shine  through  the 
woods. 

But  the  glory  of  this  end  of  our  island  lies  all  about 
us.  It  is  in  the  towering  pines  and  firs,  every  one  of 
which  is  a  joy  and  a  wonder.  They  are  most  musical 
poems,  grown  from  God's  love  and  bounty,  —  stately 
and  majestic,  for  they  have  "fed  on  honey-dew,  and 
drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise."  Everywhere  we  ram 
ble,  they  outspread  their  arms  over  us  and  murmur 
"  Benedicite."  It  is  almost  as  if  we  "  heard  the  voice 
of  the  Lord  God  walking  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of 
the  day;"  and  surely,  they  are  expecting  Him,  for, 
like  the  throng  before  the  gates  of  the  Holy  City,  they 
have  cast  their  garments  on  the  ground  for  Him  to 
tread  upon,  and  all  living  things,  even  the  tiny  moss- 
cups  at  their  roots,  do  cry  "'Hosanna!  " 

The  pine-needles  lie  everywhere  beneath  our  feet, 
and  our  voices  take  the  hint  and  fall  into  a  hushed 
whisper.  Some  of  the  trees  were  born  twins,  and 
have  never  been  separated  by  time  or  tempest,  grow 
ing  side  by  side  from  the  same  root. 

Surely  no  happier  spot  can  be  found  under  heaven 
where  one  could  lie  to  dream,  and  wake,  and  then  to 


204.  Poets'  Homes. 

dream  again  ;  to  catch,  in  his  half-unconscious  mo 
ments  of  awakening, 

"That  old  voice  of  waters,  of  birds,  and  <_f  breeze. 
The  dip  of  the  wild  fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees !  " 

and  then,  sliding  down  the  gulfs  of  sleep,  to 

"Hear  in  his  dreams  the  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  the  familiar  shore." 

These  rocks  could  tell  a  wondrous  story  if  they 
would ;  and  even  now,  while  we  drowse,  there  come 
the  trumpet-notes  of  Whittier's  song  : 

"But  harkl  from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimac  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  pro\v  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  bla.-t 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mnst  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  !ow,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drifts  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mists  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way." 

For  ages  before  Columbus  sat,  a  fair-haired  boy,  on 
the  wharf  at  Genoa,  looking  into  the  blue  Mediter 


Mrs.    Spojford  and  Miss  Prescott.  205 

nmean,  and  dreaming  of  new  worlds,  the  fierce 
vikings  of  Norseland  are  said  to  have  sailed  past  our 
island ;  and,  not  far  from  here,  a  fragment  of  a  statue 
has  been  found,  which  some  attribute  to  their  hands. 
But  we  want  to  see  the  house,  although  just  now  we 
are  hardly  conscious  of  it,  we  are  so  "  steeped  in  the 
happy  summer  weather ; "  and  if  we  stay  here  long 
we  shall  forget  all  care,  like  the  "  Lotus  Eaters,"  and 
feel,  with  Miss  Prescott  in  her  song,  that 

"  Life  is  enough,  no  matter  whether 
One  be  a  bird  or  a  flower  1 " 

The  dwelling  is  one  of  those  grand,  old-fashioned 
farm-houses,  built  to  last  as  long  as  the  island,  and 
when  folks  had  plenty  of  room  and  plenty  of  timber 
to  put  round  it.  It  used  to  be  a  tavern,  also,  and  it 
actually  seems  to  laugh  as  we  come  up  to  it,  with 
memories  of  the  jollity  it  has  seen  in  days  gone  by. 
But  there  is  a  different  air  about  it  now.  It  has  been 
remodeled  somewhat,  without  and  within  ;  and,  while 
there  is  no  lack  of  laughter  around  it,  it  stands  with  a 
quiet  and  stately  grace.  There  is  store  of  joy  there 
now,  but  it  is  different ;  as  the  song  that  steals  out 
into  the  hushed  night  from  the  poet's  lattice  is  differ 
ent  from  that  which  makes  the  rafters  ring  over  the 
bowl  of  cider. 


io6  Poets'  Homes. 

1 1  was  hard  to  pass  the  piazza  before,  for  surely 
none  ever  gave  a  broader  welcome.  It  actually  looks 
like  its  master, — generous  and  genial.  We  cross 
over  and  enter  the  spacious  doorway.  Sitting  here  in 
the  quiet,  and  looking  out  on  the  beauty  beyond,  it 
would  almost  seem  nothing  strange  if  three  shining 
ones  should  appear,  as  they  did  to  Abram  when  he 
sat  in  the  door  of  his  tent  on  the  plains  of  Mamre. 

But  we  must  turn  about.  What  a  splendid,  hall ! 
(I  know  that  is  a  "  woman's  word,"  but  nothing  else 
will  do.)  To  me  it  is  the  noblest  part  of  the  house. 
The  staircase  is  broad  and  quaint,  and  above,  it  is  open 
clear  through  the  house,  giving  it  an  air  of  spacious 
ness  and  grandeur.  Below,  too,  it  is  wide  and  cool, 
a  most  delicious  retreat  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  a 
perfect  temple  for  quiet,  unspoken  worship  in  the 
hush  of  evening.  To  the  left  of  the  hall  is  the  par 
lor  ;  and,  once  within,  it  is  hard  to  get  away,  there 
is  so  much  to  feast  the  eye,  and,  if  I  may  say  it,  so 
much  to  charm  the  mind ;  for  here  the  family  sit  and 
make  the  home.  Of  course  you  would  expect  choice 
books  and  pictures ;  and  so  there  are,  —  one  of  the 
latter  a  sketch  from  Mrs.  Spofford's  "  Sir  Rohan's 
Ghost,"  drawn  and  given  by  the  sister  of  Mr.  How- 
ells;  and  another,  a  grand,  terrible  old  painting  of 
the  tragic  scene  in  the  life  of  Chris'"  —  a  dark  piece, 


Mrs.    Spofford  and  Miss   Prescott.          207 

which  glooms  impressively  by  candlelight.  Bur  the 
glory  of  the  parlor,  —  which  fills  the  whole  breadth  ot 
the  house  and  is  very  spacious — is  the  fire-place. 
This  is  very  unique  and  rich.  It  is  made  of  the 
"  precious  serpentine,"  a  green,  veined  rock  of  the 
loveliest  tints,  and  which  takes  a  very  high  polish.  It 
was  taken  from  Mr.  Spofford's  quarry  at  the  "  Devil's 
Basin,"  in  Old  Newbury,  and  it  is  the  first  time,  I 
think,  that  the  stone  has  ever  been  put  to  this  most 
appropriate  use. 

From  the  rear  of  the  parlor  opens  the  library,  and 
from  that  Mr.  Spofford's  office.  The  library  is  well 
stored  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  very  attractive  with 
books,  busts  and  pictures.  Just  the  place  for  one  to 
sit  in,  with  a  book  across  the  knees,  and  —  look  out 
of  the  window ;  for  a  perfect  flood  of  beauty  is  out 
side,  and  it  would  be  a  very  interesting  volume,  or  a 
very  hard  task,  that  could  keep  my  eyes  from  roaming, 
in  there. 

One  picture  in  the  library  I  must  speak  of,  for  love 
of  "  auld  acquaintance."  It  is  an  engraving  of  Hor 
ace  Vernet's  "  Le  Poste  du  Desert ; "  and  many  a 
time  in  my  boyhood's  days  I  have  stood  before  it,  and 
forgot  all  else  while  I  watched  the  great  swing  of  the 
camel's  feet,  and  listened  to  hear  their  soft  fall  on  the 
Saharun  sands,  or  gazed  into  the  swart  face  of  the 


2o8  Poets'  Homes. 

Bedouin  rider.  With  the  rest  of  the  house  we  have 
nothing  to  do,  for  you  know  we  were  not  invited 
to  "  bed  and  board." 

If  we  go  back  into  the  parlor  we  shall  see  the 
family ;  and  those  you  are  the  most  interested  in  are 
the  two  poets.  Mr.  Spofford  is  himself  a  poet,  and 
has  written  strong  and  graceful  verse  ;  but  with  him 
it  is  only  the  bead  upon  the  wine-cup ;  his  profession 
forces  him  to  drink  at  other  fountains.  You  and  I 
would  not  think  them  as  pleasant  —  "Blackstone" 
and  "  Coke  on  Littleton ; "  for  he  is  a  lawyer,  you 
know. 

There  is  a  brother,  too,  who  is  a  poet  if  he 
would  be ;  I  well  remember,  in  our  school-boy  days, 
his  reading  a  poem  of  rare  melody  and  rhythm.  You 
see  it  is  a  family  of  genius.  Indeed,  it  has  been  a 
family  of  marked  intellectuality  all  the  way  down. 

The  Prescotts  can  boast  —  but  never  do  —  of  as 
noble  a  lineage  as  any  of  our  good  old  New  England 
families.  Sir  William  Pepperell,  Sir  John  Brydges, 
and  a  host  of  worthies,  were  their  ancestors.  Pres- 
cott,  the  historian,  was  a  cousin  ;  and  Mr.  Evarts,  our 
Secretary  of  State,  and  the  famous  Hoar  brothers,  of 
Massachusetts,  are  nearer  still. 

Miss  Prescott  has  very  kindly  given  you  her  por 
trait,  for  which  we  are  much  indebted  to  her  ;  so  J 


Mrs.    Spojford  and  Miss  Prescott.  209 

only  speak  of  her  poetry,  after  telling  you  that  she  is 
tall  and  slender,  with  beautiful  corn-silk  hair,  and 
quiet,  charming  ways. 

Thousands  who  regard  Mrs.  Spofford  with  love  and 
reverence,  and  yet  can  never  meet  her,  long  to  look 
upon  the  semblance  of  her  face.  But  no  entreaties 


Miss  MARY  N.    PRESCOTT. 

can  prevail  upon  her  to  "  have  her  picture  taken." 
And  truly,  no  hard-lined  photograph  can  fitly  repro 
duce  the  charm  of  her  face,  for  this  lies  largely  in 
its  ever-varying  and  sympathetic  expression,  and, 
above  all,  in  its  deep  spirituality.  Having  once,  in 
deed,  looked  into  her  eyes,  you  can  never  forget 
them. 


210  Poets'  Homes. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  face  of  Mrs.  Browning? 
I  do  not  say  that  Mrs.  Spofford  looks  just  like  her  \ 
but  I  do  say  that  I  never  look  on  the  face  of  the  one 
but  the  face  of  the  other  comes  instantly  before  me. 
There  is  a  strong  resemblance  between  the  cast  of 
head  and  features  in  the  two  poets ;  and  very  much  of 
that  tender,  spiritual  depth  which  made  Mrs.  Brown 
ing  so  beautiful  is  seen  in  the  face  of  our  own  singer. 
There  is  reason  for  it,  indeed ;  for  Mrs.  Spofford 
has  a  deep  religious  nature,  making  her  genius  glow 
like  the  coal  from  off  the  holy  altar,  which  touched 
the  lips  of  the  prophet,  and  led  him  to  glorious  song. 

Mrs.  Spofford  has  a  very  light  complexion,  and  is 
of  medium  height,  though  her  delicate  and  slender 
figure  makes  her  seem  tall.  Or  is  it  a  peculiar  charm 
of  carriage  that  gives  this  impression  ?  For  Milton's 
verse, 

"  Grace  was  in  all  her  steps," 

may  well  be  applied  to  her,  —  whose  pace  is  rapid, 
and  yet  with  so  little  apparent  motion  that  she  seems 
to  glide  rather  than  to  walk. 

Mrs.  Spofford  has  not  written  as  much  for  young 
folks  as  her  sister,  but  her  stories  and  poems  meant 
for  you  I  doubt  not  you  have  read  over  and  over 
again.  You  know  she  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
"word-painters ;"  so  far,  indeed,  as  to  be  solitary  and 


Mrs.   Spoffbrd  and  Miss  Prescott.          211 

alone.  She  writes  —  as  your  editor  says — with  the 
brush.  Her  work  has  the  glow  of  a  New  England 
autumn ;  at  times  it  is  wild  as  New  England's  "  Sep 
tember  Gale,"  and  then  suddenly  there  will  fall  upon 
it  the  sacred  hush  of  a  New  England  Sabbath. 

As  specimens  of  the  "word-painting"  for  which 
Mrs.  Spofford  is  so  justly  famous,  read  that  account 
of  the  night  on  the  lake,  in  "  Midsummer  and  May." 

P  Ever  and  anon  they  passed  under  the  lee  of  some 
island,  and  the  heavy  air  grew  full  of  idle  night- 
sweetness  ;  the  waning  moon,  with  all  its  sad  and 
alien  power  hung  low,  —  dun,  malign,  and  distant,  a 
coppery  blotch  on  the  rich  darkness  of  heaven.  (  They 
floated  slowly,  still ;  now  and  then  she  dipped  a  hand 
into  the  cool  current,  —  now  and  then  he  drew  in  his 
oars,  and,  bending  forward,  dipped  his  hand  with 
hers.  1  The  stars  retreated  in  a  pallid  veil  that 
dimmed  their  beams.  Faint  lights  streamed  up  the 
sky,  —  the  dark  yet  clear  and  delicious.  They  paused 
motionless  in  the  shelter  of  a  steep  rock ;  over  them  a 
wild  vine  hung  and  swayed  its  long  wreaths  in  the 
water,  a  sweet-brier  starred  with  fragrant  sleeping 
buds  climbed  and  twisted,  and  tufts  of  ribbon-grass 
fell  forward  and  streamed  in  the  indolent  ripple ;  be 
neath  them  the  lake,  lucid  as  some  dark  crystal 


212 


Poets'  Homes. 


sheeted  with  olive  transparence  a  bottom  of  yellow 
sand ;  here  a  bream  poised  on   slowly  waving  fins,  as 


if  dreaming  of   motion,  or  a  perch 

flashed  its  red  fire  from   one  hollow 

to    another.     The  shadow  lifted   a   degree,  the  eye 

penetrated   to  farther  regions;  a  bird  piped   wanly, 


Mrs.    Spofford  and  Miss  Fresco tt.          213 

then  freely,  a  second  and  then  a  third  answered 
a  fourth  took  up  the  tale,  blue-jay  and  thrush, 
cat-bird  and  bobolink,  —  wings  began  to  dart  about 
them,  the  world  to  rustle  overhead.  Near  and  far 
the  dark  pines  grew  instinct  with  sound,  the  shores 
and  heavens  blew  out  gales  of  melody,  the  air  broke 
up  in  music.  £  He  lifted  his  oars  silently  ;  she  caught 
the  sweet-brier,  and,  lightly  shaking  it,  a  rain  of  dew- 
drops  dashed  with  deepest  perfume  sprinkled  them ; 
they  moved  on.  1  A  thin  mist  breathed  from  the  lake, 
steamed  round  the  boat,  and  lay  like  a  white  coverlet 
upon  the  water ;  a  light  wind  sprang  up  and  blew  it 
in  long  rags  and  ribbons,  lifted  and  torn,  and  stream 
ing  out  of  sight.  ""jAll  the  air  was  pearly,  the  sky 
opaline,  the  water  now  crisply  emblazoned  with  a  dark 
and  splendid  jewelry,  —  the  graved-work  of  a  sap 
phire  ;  a  rosy  fleece  sailed  across  their  heads,  some 
furnace  glowed  in  the  east  behind  the  trees,  long 
beams  fell  resplendently  through  and  lay  beside  vast 
shadows,  and  giant  firs  stood  black  and  intense 
against  a  red  and  risen  sun ;  they  trailed  with  one 
oar  through  a  pad  of  buds,  all  unaware  of  change, 
stole  from  the  overhanging  thickets  through  a  walled 
pass,  where,  on  the  open  lake,  the  broad  silent  yellow 
light  crept  from  bloom  to  bloom  and  awoke  them 
with  a  touch.  How  perfectly  they  put  off  sleep!  with 


214  Poets'  Homes. 

what  a  queenly  calm  displayed  their  spotless  snow, 
their  priceless  gold,  and  shed  abroad  their  match 
less  scent ! 

"He  twined  his  finger  round  a  slippery  serpent-stem, 
turned  the  crimson  underside  of  the  floating  pavilion 
and  brought  up  a  waxen  wonder  from  its  throne  to  hang 
like  a  star  in  the  black  braids  on  her  temple.  A.n 
hour's  harvesting  among  the  nymphs,  in  this  rich  at 
mosphere  of  another  world,  and  with  a  loaded  boat 
they  returned  to  shore  again." 

This  is  poetry  that  haunts  the  memory,  like  a 
sweet  unknown  voice  heard  in  the  night,  weaving  a 
song  familiar  and  filled  with  some  undying  joy  of  our 
far-off  days. 

But  I  like  even  better  her  sea-scenes,  and  in  these 
she  surpasses  all  women  who  have  ever  written.  Mrs. 
Spofford  is  a  genuine  product  of  our  New  England 
coaot.  The  east  winds  have  blown  her  through  and 
through,  —  not  to  chill  her  powers,  but  to  sweep  the 
chords  of  her  heart  into  a  rare,  rich  melody,  —  now 
soft  and  dying,  now  wild  and  crescent  —  to  which  the 
glorious  sea  itself  delights  to  thunder  its  bass  before 
her  feet.  She  rides  the  sea,  —  that  soft,  sleek,  pur 
ring  monster,  with  hidden  claws  and  terrible  fangs,  — 
as  Una  rode  the  lion.  One  can  almost  hear  her  say 
ing,  with  Byron, 


Mrs.    Spojford  and  Miss  Prescott.  215 

"  The  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  master." 

Let  us  turn  to  Mrs.  Spofford's  story  of  "  The  South 
Breaker,"  which  is  one  of  those  breakers  that  we 
passed  as  we  came  into  the  Merrimac  on  our  way  to 
her  island  home. 

"There  was  the  Cape  sparkling  miles  and  miles 
across  the  way,  unconcerned  that  he  whose  firm  foot 
had  rung  last  on  its  flints  should  ring  there  no 
more ;  there  was  the  beautiful  town  lying  large  and 
warm  along  the  river ;  here  gay  crafts  went  darting 
about  like  gulls,  and  there  up  the  channel  sped  a 
large  one  with  all  her  canvass  flashing  in  the  sun,  and 
shivering  a  little  sprit-sail  in  the  shadow  as  she  went; 
fawning  in  upon  my  feet  came  the  foam  from  the 
South  Breaker,  that  still  perhaps  cradled  Faith  and 
Gabriel.  But  as  I  looked,  my  eye  fell,  and  there 
came  the  sea-scenes  again,  —  other  scenes  than  this, 
coves  and  corners  of  other  coasts,  sky-girt  regions  of 
other  waters.  The  air  was  soft  that  April  day,  and  I 
thought  of  the  summer  calms ;  and  with  that  rose  long 
sheets  of  stillness,  far  out  from  any  strand,  purple 
beneath  the  noon  ;  fields  slipping  close  in  shore,  eme 
rald  backed  and  scaled  with  sunshine ;  long  sleepy 
swells  that  hid  the  light  in  their  hollows,  and  came 


116  Poets'  Homes. 

creaming  along  the  cliffs.  And  if  upon  these  broke 
suddenly  a  wild  glimpse  of  some  storm  careering  over 
a  merciless  mid-ocean,  of  a  dear  dead  face  tossing  up 
on  the  surge,  and  snatched  back  again  into  the 
depths,  of  mad  wastes  rushing  to  tear  themselves  to 
fleece  above  clear  shallows  and  turbid  sandbars,  — 
they  melted  and  were  lost  in  peaceful  glimmers  of  the 
moon  on  distant  flying  foam-wreaths,  in  solemn  mid 
night  tides  chanting  under  hushed  heavens,  in  twilight 
stretches  kissing  twilight  slopes,  in  rosy  morning 
waves  flocking  up  the  singing  shores.  And  sitting  so, 
with  my  lids  still  fallen,  I  heard  a  quick  step  on  the 
beach,  and  a  voice  that  said  '  Georgie ! '  and  I  looked, 
and  a  figure,  red-shirted,  towered  beside  me,  and  a 
face,  brown  and  bearded  and  tender,  bent  above  me. 
"Oh!  it  was  Dan!" 

Much  of  Mrs.  Spofford's  work  —  as  much  of 
Whittier's  also  —  receives  thus  its  local  coloring  from 
the  peculiarities  of  our  neighborhood.  To  all  who 
know  our  woods  and  waters,  our  quiet  or  storm-blown 
coast,  her  enthralling  pictures  carry  sweet  or  terrible 
secrets  to  which  other  eyes  must  be  dimmed. 

The  "South  Breaker"  lies  off  one  end  of  Plum 
Island,  and  is  easily  reached  with  dry  feet  at  low 
tide.  Only  the  other  night  I  stood  on  the  farthest 


Mrs.    Spqffbrd   and   Miss   Prescott.          217 

point,  and  saw  the  moon  burst  through  the  fog-clouds 
in  broken  masses  of  lurid  red,  melting  into  one  per 
fect  globe  as  the  fog  moved  on. 

But  if  Mrs.  Spofford  writes  with  such  terrible  vigor 
of  the  sea,  when  she  crosses  the  narrow  strip  of  sand 
which  makes  Plum  Island  she  leaves  the  wildness  of 
the  waste  of  waters  behind  her,  and  her  voice  falls 
low  and  musical  as  the  winding  river  among  the 
sedges.  Let  us  hear  her  as  she  sings  "  Inside  Plum 
Island."  It  is  but  half  a  mile  from  Plum  Island 
River  to  the  fierce  Breaker ;  yet  how  vast  a  change 
in  the  tones  of  her  harp ! 

1  We  floated  in  the  idle  breeze, 

With  all  our  sails  a-shiver  ; 
The  shining  tide  came  softly  through, 

And  filled  Plum  Island  River. 

"  The  shining  tide  stole  softly  up 

Across  the  wide  green  splendor, 
^reek  swelling  creek  till  all  at  once 

The  marshes  made  surrender. 

'•And  clear  the  flood  of  silver  swung 

Between  the  brimming  edges, 
/xnd  now  the  depths  were  dark,  and  now 

The  fioat  slid  o'er  the  sedges. 

fc  And  here  a  yellow  sand  spit  foamed 

^  mid  the  great  sea  meadows, 
Aiid  nere  the  slumberous  waters  gloomed 

L  icrd  in  emerald  shadows. 


ti8  Poets'   Homes. 


Around  the  sunny  distance  rose 
A  blue  and  hazy  highland, 

And  winding  down  our  winding  way 
The  sand  hills  of  Plum  Island  — 

"The  windy  dunes  that  hid  the  sea 

For  many  a  dreary  acre, 
And  muffled  all  its  thundering  fall 
Along  the  wild  South  Breaker. 


"  Beneath  our  keel  the  great  sky  arched 

Its  liquid  light  and  azure  ; 
We  swung  between  two  heavens,  ensphcrecf 

Within  their  charmed  embrasure. 


•'  Broadly  the  bare  brown  Hundreds  rose, 
The  herds  their  hollows  keeping, 

And  clouds  of  wings  about  our  mast 
From  Swallowbanks  were  sweeping. 

"  While  evermore  the  Bluff  before 

Grew  greenly  on  our  vision, 
Lifting  beneath  its  waving  boughs 

Its  grassy  slopes  Elysian. 

1 '  Here  all  day  long  the  summer  sea 
Creams  murmuring  up  the  shingle  ; 

Here,  all  day  long,  the  airs  of  earth 
With  airs  of  heaven  mingle. 

*  Singing  we  went  our  happy  way, 
Singing  old  songs,  nor  noted 


Mrs.    Sp afford  and  Miss   Prescott.  219 

Another  voice  that  with  us  sang," 
As  wing  and  wing  we  floated, 

"  Till  hushed,  we  listened,  while  the  air 

With  music  still  was  beating, 
Voice  answering  tuneful  voice,  again 

The  words  we  sang  repeating. 

"  A  flight  of  fluting  echoes,  sent 

With  elfin  carol  o'er  us  — 
More  sweet  than  bird-song  in  the  prime 

Rang  out  the  sea-blown  chorus. 

"  Behind  those  dunes  the  storms  had  heaped 

In  all  fantastic  fashion, 
Who  syllabled  our  songs  in  strains 

Remote  from  human  passion  ? 

"  What  tones  were  those  that  caught  our  own 
Filtered  through  light  and  distance, 

And  tossed  them  gayly  to  and  fro 
With  such  a  sweet  insistence  ? 


"  One  standing  eager  in  the  prow 
Blew  out  his  bugle  cheerly, 

And  far  and  wide  their  horns  replied 
More  silverly  and  clearly. 

"  And  falling  down  the  falling  tide, 
Slow  and  more  slowly  going, 

Flown  far,  flown  far,  flown  faint  and 
We  heard  their  horns  still  blowing. 


22O  Poets'   Homes. 

"  In  vain  at  night  we  sought  the  sound  — 

Stars  over  us  and  under 
Through  all  that  watery  wilderness 

Building  a  world  of  wonder ; 

"  In  vain  our  lingering  halloo, 

Our  roundelay  untiring, 
No  silver  cry  chimed  far  or  nigh 

Of  all  that  silver  choiring. 

"  O,  never  since  that  magic  morn 
Those  strains  the  boatman  follows, 

Or  piping  from  the  sandy  hills, 
Or  bubbling  from  the  hollows. 

"  Yet  long  as  summer  breezes  blow 

Waves  murmur,  rushes  quiver, 
Those  warbling  echoes  everywhere 

Will  haunt  Plum  Island  River ! ' 

Mrs.  Spofford's  descriptions  are  always  faithful  to 
nature.  She  paints  scenes  as  they  are,  —  then  calls 
up  their  souls  for  us  to  commune  with.  That  is  a 
true  incident  of  the  echo ;  on  the  way  to  "  The  BlulT  " 
this  echo  was  found  —  never  noted  before  —  among 
the  sand-dunes ;  but  on  the  return  it  refused  to  an 
swer,  and  has  been  silent  ever  since.  There  is  one  of 
her  poems  which  has  always  been  a  favorite  of  mine 
and  I  want  to  quote  it  wholly ;  because,  like  well- 
woven  music,  not  a  tone  can  be  dropped  without 
breaking  the  chord.  It  will  show  you,  too,  how  she 


Mrs.    Spofford  and  Miss   Prescott.          221 

goes  deep  down  and  through  the  things  of  sense, 
piercing  to  the  spirit  and  turning  the  light  of  her 
luminous  eyes  upon  its  secrets.  You  cannot  yet  un 
derstand  the  full  depth  of  this  poem,  but  as  you  grow 
older  you  will  all  have  the  experience  —  no  morta! 
can  escape  it : 

LISTENING. 

"  Her  white  hand  flashes  on  the  strings, 

Sweeping  a  swift  and  silver  chord, 
And  wild  and  strong  the  great  harp  rings 

Its  throng  of  throbbing  notes  abroad : 
Music  and  moonlight  make  a  bloom 
Throughout  the  rich  and  sombre  room. 

"Oh,  sweet  the  long  and  shivering  swells, 

And  sweeter  still  the  lingering  flow, 
Delicious  as  remembered  bells 

Dying  in  distance  long  ago, 
When  evening  winds  from  heaven  were  blown 
And  the  heart  yearned  for  things  unknown. 

"  Across  the  leafy  window-place 
Peace  seals  the  stainless  sapphire  deep ; 

One  sentry  star  on  outer  space 

His  quenchless  lamp  lifts,  half  asleep; 

Peace  broods  where  falling  waters  flow, 

Peace  where  the  heavy  roses  blow. 

14  And  on  the  windless  atmosphere 

Wait  all  the  fragrances  of  June  ; 
The  summer  night  is  hushed  to  hear 

The  passion  of  the  ancient  tune : 
Then  why  those  sudden  tears  that  start, 
And  why  this  pierced  and  aching  heart  ? 


222  Poets'  Homes. 

"  Ah,  listen  1     We  and  all  our  pain 

Are  mortal,  and  divine  the  song  I 
Idly  our  topmost  height  we  gain,  — 

It  spurns  that  height,  and  far  along 
Seeks  in  the  heavens  its  splendid  mark, 

And  we  fall  backward  on  the  dark!  " 

Her  first  captivation  of  the  public  was  romantic 
enough.  When  but  a  school-girl  she  wrote  a  story 
called  "  In  a  Cellar,"  and  sent  it  to  The  Atlantic 
Monthly.  The  editor  was  astonished  at  the  talent 
displayed  and  at  the  perfect  familiarity  with  French 
society  life.  He  would  not  believe  it  possible  in  one 
so  young.  He  thought  it  must  be  a  translation,  and 
returned  it  to  her  with  that  rather  aggravating,  but 
very  flattering,  decision.  But  good  Colonel  Higgin- 
son,  then  a  clergyman  here,  wrote  to  the  editor 
vouching  for  the  genuineness  of  her  work,  and  it  was 
instantly  received. 

Her  published  books  are  "  Sir  Rohan's  Ghost," 
1859,  written  while  yet  a  girl,  but  giving  great  prom 
ise  ;  "  Amber  Gods  and  Other  stories,  "  1863,  in 
which  are  found  the  most  wonderful  displays  of  her 
mastery  of  color  and  incident ;  "  Azarian,"  1864,  and 
"  New  England  Legends,"  a  collection  of  tales  of  the 
old  colony  times.  Among  her  writings  for  children, 
some  of  the  most  charming  are  "  Christmas,"  a  beau 
tiful  hymn  of  the  Saviour-babe,  in  Our  Young  Folks 
for  December,  1865;  "The  Portrait,"  a  powerful 


THE   LIBRARY. 


^24  Poets'  Homes. 

sketch  in  the  same  periodical  for  February,  1865 ; 
and  "Arnold  and  His  Violin,"  in  Sf.  Nicholas  for 
November. 

Miss  Prescott's  first  appearance,  too,  was  when  a 
school-girl  ;  her  mother's  quick  perception  detecting  a 
"  composition "  that  was  worthy  of  a  wider  hearing 
—  which  it  quickly  got.  In  reading  the  charming 
poems  Miss  Prescott  has  given  to  the  world,  you  see 
at  once  that  she  looks  at  all  things  through  Nature,  as 
through  transparent  glass.  All  her  sweet  and  tender 
thoughts  are  set  forth  through  the  medium  of  flowers 
and  books  and  trees,  "Flower-talk,"  "Praise," 
"Waiting,"  are  such;  and  if  she  were  to  teach  a 
school  of  children  it  would  surely  be  done  in  the  same 
way ;  as  you  may  see  from  "  Flora's  Multiplication," 
and  "  Sue's  Lessons : " 

"  Wait,  little  one,  wait ; 
The  crocus  comes  in  its  purple  gown, 
The  marigold  soon  wears  its  golden  crown, 

And  the  robin  will  not  be  late." 

"  Twice  one  are  two, 
Violets  white  and  blue ; 
Twice  two  are  four, 
Sunflowers  at  the  door." 

She  has  a  special  love  for  birds,  and  perhaps  it  is 
this  that  makes  her  write  such  sweet  songs.  She 
enters  into  all  their  joys  and  sorrows,  and  seems  to 
understand  all  their  charming  ways.  You  may  see 


VIEW    AT    THE    WESTERN    POINT. 


Mrs.  Spofford  and  Miss  Prcscott.  227 

this  in  such  poems  as  "  Out  in  the  Shower ; "  "  Out 
in  the  Storm  ; "  "  The  Bird's  Nest,"  and  "  The  Bird's 
Song."  She  loves  even  the  plain  weeds,  and  sings,  in 
"  Summer's  Invocation : " 

"  Come  mullein  and  sorrel  and  rue, 
Fill  the  humble  niche  waiting  for  you," 

and  especially  in  "  In  Summer : " 

14  While  simple  weeds  seem  saying,  in  grateful  transport  praying, 
Unto  Him  our  praises  all  belong  1 " 

Her  heart  is  full  of  love  and  faith  and  trust  in  God, 
not  only  for  herself,  but  for  all  her  dear  friends  in 
nature.  These  feelings  well  up  like  clear  springs 
through  beautiful  grasses  in  "Listening,"  "The 
Golden-rod,"  "Why?"  "Winter"  and  "Spring 
time."  There  is  rare  depth  and  tenderness  in  heir 
verse,  too,,  when  dealing  with  subjects  which  call  it 
out.  Some  years  ago  a  little  babe  came  to  Mrs. 
Spofford,  —  a  noble-looking  boy,  with  his  face  full  of 
"that  imperial  glory  whence  he  came."  I  can  never 
forget  that  face ;  but  he  soon  fled  back  again.  A 
glimpse  of  her  sister's  thought  then,  can  be  caught  in 
"  Rest,"  "  Morning-Glory,"  and  "  Good-Night,  Little 
Star ; "  but  one  little  poem  you  must  let  me  repeat 
entire,  because  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  the  most 
perfect  thing  of  its  kind  in  the  English  language : 


328  Poets'  Homes. 

"  Sound  asleep  !  no  sigh  can  reach 

Him  who  dreams  the  heavenly  dream  ; 
No  to-morrow's  silver  speech 

Wake  him  with  an  earthly  theme. 
Summer's  rains  relentlessly 

Patter  where  his  head  doth  lie  ; 
There  the  wild  fern  and  the  brake 

All  their  summer  leisure  take  ; 
Violets,  blinded  with  the  dew, 

Perfume  lend  to  the  sad  rue — 
Till  the  day  breaks,  fair  and  clear 

And  no  shadow  doth  appear." 

Miss  Mary  Prescott's  only  book  is  "Matt's  Folly," 
but  her  stories  for  the  young  folks,  if  collected,  would 
make  a  large  and  very  inviting  volume. 

One  most  important  member  of  the  family,  I  must 
not  forget.  He  was,  but  is,  alas !  no  longer !  I  mean 
Hans.  Hans  was  not  a  Dutchman  —  he  was  a  Spitz 
dog.  "  None  knew  him  but  to  love  him,"  except 
the  boys  who  made  faces  at  him  in  the  street.  He 
was  not  made  for  boys,  but  for  "  family  use."  And  I 
am  tempted  to  add  that  other  remark  of  advertise 
ments,  "Every  family  should  have  one."  *He  was 
heroic  outside  the  house ;  in  the  parlor  gentle  and 
gallant  as  any  carpet-knight.  It  might  be  said  of  him 
indeed,  as  of  the  old  Roman :  Suaviter  in  modo ;  for- 
iiter  in  re.  He  was  beautiful  and  wise ;  but  even 
such  must  die.  He  succumbed  to  poison  a  few  weeks 


Mrs.   Spojford  and  Miss  Prescott.  229 

ago,  and  his  demise  left  a  gap  in  the  family,  and  an 
empty  place  in  their  hearts.  "  Do  doggies  gang  to 
heaven  when  they  dee  ? "  asked  the  little  Scotch  boy 
of  his  dominie.  If  you  were  to  ask  our  poets,  they 
would  certainly  answer  "  Yes." 


MRS.   CELIA  THAXTER. 

DEAR  CHILDREN,  would  you  like  me  to  tell 
you  a  word  of  one  whom  you,  too,  doubtlesu 
have  come  to  count  among  your  own?  She  that  wan 
the  "  Spray  Sprite "  of  that  enchanting  island,  will 
its  wealth  of  deep-sea  life  —  that  point  of  rock  up 
lifted  from  the  sea,  and  crowned  with  its  jeweled  light, 
now  golden  and  then  red  ?  She  who,  in  later  years, 
sang  the  sweet,  brave,  matchless  songs  that  the  great 
sea  had  whispered  into  her  heart  ? 

Upon  your  maps  you  will  find  on  the  wee  bit  01! 
coast  of  New  Hampshire  a  city  called  Portsmouth. 
It  is  an  old,  old  town,  with  a  great  harbor,  and  ship 
ping,  and  a  navy  yard ;  and  it  is  the  birthplace  of 
Celia  Thaxter.  It  is  a  quaint,  interesting  old  town. 
Down  by  a  small  pier  of  its  own  is  a  staunch  little 
steamer,  called  Appledore.  If  you  step  on  board  of 
it,  you  will  soon  be  steaming  out  on  the  still  waters  of 

230 


Mrs.  Celia    Thaxter.  «3'j 

this  fair,  wide  harbor.  To  the  right  and  left  are  fine 
views  —  wharves,  boats,  points  of  land,  orchards,  old 
forts,  and  other  picturesque  objects,  through  which 
the  boat  winds  its  way.  After  you  have  gone  thus 
two  or  three  miles,  you  find  the  land  on  either  hand 
receding  from  you,  and  that  you  are  really  out  at 
sea. 

If  the  breeze  is  at  all  stiff,  then  the  stout  little 
steamer,  with  its  flying  banners  and  gay  people,  is; 
tossed  about  on  the  great,  green,  white-capped  wave; 
as  if  it  were  of  very  small  account.  It  would  make 
you  laugh  to  see  it,  yet  you  wouldn't  be  a  bit  afraid 
Somehow  you  would  trust  this  funny,  stout-hearted 
determined  little  boat,  that  despite  the  waves  seem; 
to  know  its  own  mind  and  make  decided  headway. 

By  and  by  several  queer  little  gray  moles  appea 
through  the  haze  on  the  horizon.      You  approach 
They  grow  larger,  yet  scarcely  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,     If  it  is  evening,  you  see  the  constant  twinkle  oi 
the  red  and  golden  light.     Presently  you  draw  near  to 
one  of  the  islands  —  for  such  they  are  —  with  its  gray 
rocks  lifted  against  the  sea,  and  the  lights  glimmering 
from  the  one  great  house.     With  music,  and  waving 
flags,  and  merry  bustle,  the  boat  steams  proudly  up  to 
the  wharf,  and  here  you  are  at  Appledore. 

You  go  to  sleep  that  night  with  the  sea  singing  in 


232  Poefs  Homes. 

your  ears.  Next  morning  you  are  wakened —  how  do 
you  suppose  ?  By  a  bugle  horn !  Its  notes  wind  over 
the  rocks,  and  waters,  and  slumbering  place, 

"  Ah,  so  loud,  and  wild,  and  sweet  I  " 

that  you  open  your  eyes,  believing  life  to  be  some 
dear,  joyous,  restful  and  magical  thing.  Where  are 
you  ?  In  an  Alpine  glade  ?  Or  in  the  deep  forests  of 
the  Scottish  Highlands  ?  Nay  ;  rather,  away  out  your 
window  is  the  limitless  sea.  It  plashes  upon  the 
rocks  forever.  You  forget  there  are  such  things  as 
great  cities,  with  their  toiling  multitudes.  You  forget 
the  clattering  mechanism  of  the  world.  The  millions 
of  households  dotted  over  the  land,  the  schools,  the 
books,  all  seem  so  far,  far  away.  You  forget  all  but 
these  little  gray  rocks  in  the  ocean,  with  their  own 
peculiar  life,  until  it  seems  as  if  you  had  fallen  upon 
that  fabled  lotus-land,  where  those  who  once  go  re- 
membei  their  own  country  no  more. 

And  this  is  Appledore,  the  largest  of  the  Isles  of 
Shoals,  with  its  mile  or  more  of  rocks,  chasms  and 
cliffs,  adorned  with  short  abundant  herbage,  with  its 
pleasant  house  for  the  entertainment  of  those  at 
tracted  thither,  with  its  grassy  slope  to  the  wharf, 
where  a  fleet  of  small  boats  are  in  waiting  to  convey 
one,  at  will,  to  the  adjacent  islands,  or  whithersoevr 
you  would  go. 


Mrs.   Celia    Thaxter.  235 

To  the  right  of  the  great  house,  and  higher  up, 
quite  among  the  rocks,  is  the  cottage  where,  every 
summer,  Celia  Thaxter  holds  her  little  court. 

The  cottage,  which  is  a  detached  portion  of  the 
hotel,  is  as  plain  a  house  as  ever  you  saw.  No  bay- 
tvindows,  balconies,  or  other  pretty  appendages ;  no 
fanciful  gables,  or  Gothic  points;  no  newness  of 
paint ;  no  vines  or  trees.  Only  a  plain,  two-storied 
house,  with  its  dormer-windowed  attic.  A  homely 
house  built  on  the  rock,  and  perched  in  severe  relief 
against  the  sky. 

Across  the  front,  and  at  one  side,  is  a  piazza  shaded 
by  canvas  awnings.  Here,  from  one  of  its  swinging 
hammocks,  or  from  the  parlor  windows,  one  can  look 
over  a  peacefully  animated  scene :  the  great  house, 
and  grassy  slope,  with  knots  of  people  here  and 
there ;  the  small  harbor,  the  neighboring  islands,  and 
the  white  sails  dotting  the  vast  water. 

At  the  front  of  the  cottage  is  a  small  yard,  enclosed 
by  a  picket  fence.  It,  is  full  of  flowers.  I  do  not 
mean  prim  and  decorous  beds,  and  flowers  staying 
where  they  are  put,  within  their  well-clipped  borders. 
But  a  yard/////  of  flowers — full  to  the  fence-top  and 
covering  every  inch  of  ground  with  their  glad  luxuri 
ance.  Not  a  weed  anywhere  — quite  crowded  out  by 
these  burning,  glowing,  starry,  gladsome  creatures, 


236  Poets'  Homes. 

Somehow,  by  reason  of  the  soil  and  air,  all  flowers 
here  have  a  freedom  of  growth  and  brilliancy  of  hue 
not  elsewhere  found,  —  an  intense  loveliness ! 

In  this  yard  nasturtions,  pansies,  marigolds,  sweet- 
pease,  mignonette,  and  other  homely  flowers,  live  out 
their  very  best  life.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  see  something 
live  at  its  very  best — gladly,  generously,  and  un- 
dwarfed ! 

Indeed,  you  cannot  step  anywhere  there  is  a  bit  of 
soil  all  over  this  island,  without  crushing  some  sweet- 
faced  eye-bright,  pimpernel,  or  other  interesting  flower. 
No  wonder  Mrs.  Thaxter's  poems  are  full  of  them. 
Nor  is  it  strange  her  little  parlor  is  adorned  with 
them  !  They,  too,  like  the  sea,  have  whispered  into 
her  heart  their  dear  and  subtle  meanings. 

"  The  barren  island  dreams  in  flowers,  while  blow 
The  south  winds,  drawing  haze  o'er  sea  and  land , 

Yet  the  great  heart  of  ocean,  throbbing  slow, 

Makes  the  frail  blossoms  vibrate  where  they  stand." 

Wild  morning-glories  twine  about  her  chandelier, 
and  bud  and  bloom  every  day,  nourished  by  some 
hidden  glass  of  water.  A  pearly  shell,  pendent  be 
low,  is  always  full  of  the  "barbaric  splendor"  of 
nasturtion  bloom.  Single  marigolds  have  their  hon 
ored  place.  There  are  oblong  cups  full  of  pansy- 


Mrs.   Celia    Thaxter.  237 

faces,  looking  up  into  your  own.  Flowers,  flowers 
everywhere  in  this  little  parlor  ! 

A  globe  of  water  by  the  window  holds  a  star-fish,  a 
sea-urchin,  or  other  strange  creatures  that  the  same 
tender  hand  has  gathered  from  their  secret  haunts. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  is  the  writing-desk, 
where  now  and  then,  in  leisure  moments,  those  unique, 
rapid  notes  are  dashed  off  to  numberless  friends  far 
away.  Bright,  virile  little  notes,  as  clear  and  com 
pact  as  the  intellect  that  indites  them.  In  the  corner 
opposite  is  an  upright  piano. 

Curious  story-telling  sketches  and  drawings  adorn 
the  walls.  Over  the  mantel,  at  one  time,  was  a 
sketch  of  herself,  laying  drift-wood  upon  the  fire.  At 
die  time  Harry  Fenn  drew  this  sketch,  the  parlor  was 
severely  simple,  and  charming  in  that  simplicity.  It 
is  much  changed  since  then.  Now  it  is  filled  with 
harmonious  color,  and  numerous  added  objects  of 
interest.  Yet,  happily,  it  retains  its  original  charac 
ter.  Were  this  lost,  it  would  be  a  grief  to  its  many 
friends.  A  recent  movement  to  refit  the  entire  cot 
tage  met  with  a  protest  from  those  to  whom  this  par 
lor  had  become  endeared,  and  it  was  left  undisturbed 
tor  the  present. 

Underneath  the  mantel  is  the  grate  itself,  on  which, 
at  evening,  the  drift-wood  is  piled.  In  the  light  of 


238  Poefs  Homes, 

its  cheery  flame,  countless  wise  and  witty  people 
have,  one  time  or  another,  been  made  glad. 

They  listen,  perhaps,  to  some  thrilling  tale  of 
wreck  or  disaster,  or  ghostly  tradition,  or  back  and 
forth  is  tossed  a  sparkling  fire  of  wit,  and  quaint  or 
funny  anecdote.  The  most  engaging  humor  it  is  that 
touches  the  heart,  or  makes  so  merry,  that  peals  of 
many-voiced  laughter  drift  out  the  door  and  windows 
into  the  mysterious  twilight,  where  the  sea  sighs  and 
the  flowers  are  nodding  in  the  wind. 

Or,  may  be,  there  is  music  from  the  piano,  cr  some 
wonderful  melody  from  the  violin;  or  there  is  a 
song.  Perhaps  it  is  one  of  Mrs.  Thaxter's  own 
songs,  for  many  or  them  have  been  set  to  music. 
Maybe  "Farewell,"  "Foreboding,"  "We  sail  toward 
evening's  lonely  star,"  or  this  one  of  exceeding 
sweetness : 

''  Sing,  little  bird,  O  sing  1 

How  sweet  thy  voice,  and  clear, 
How  fine  the  airy  measures  ring 

The  sad  old  world  to  cheer  ! 

"  Bloom,  little  flower,  O  bloom  I 

Thou  makest  glad  the  day  ; 
A  scented  torch,  thou  dost  illume 

The  darkness  of  the  way. 

"  Dance,  little  child,  O  dance  ! 
While  sweet  the  small  birds  sing, 


Mrs.   Celia    Thaxter.  241 

And  flowers  bloom  fair,  and  every  glance 
Of  sunshine  tells  of  spring. 

'•  O  bloom,  and  sing,  and  smile, 

Child,  bird,  and  flower,  and  make 
The  sad,  old  world  forget  awhile 

Its  sorrow  for  your  sake." 

A  few  miles  south  from  Appledore  is  the  light-house, 
fixed  upon  its  rock,  White  Island.  This  was  the 
childhood  home  of  Celia  Thaxter.  Hither  she  came 
when  she  was  but  f ou  r  years  old,  sailing  across  the 
sea  to  this  lonely  rock  with  her  father,  mother,  and 
brothers,  and  all  the  household  gods. 

This  little  girl,  Celia  Leighton,  with  her  two  broth 
ers,  led  a  life  quite  unlike  that  of  other  children.  They 
lived  very  simply  and  secluded  —  rarely  seeing  other 
than  their  own  people  at  any  season ;  while  in  winter 
they  were  provisioned  like  a  garrison,  and  lived  iso 
lated,  with  the  cheery  light  above,  and  the  tempestu 
ous  sea  about  them.  She  knew  nothing  of  schools, 
nor  of  the  vast  machinery  of  inland  life.  She  had  no 
child  books.  Shakespeare,  it  is  said,  was  the  lightest 
reading  within  her  reach.  Fancy  yourselves,  dear 
young  people,  without  your  school-companions,  your 
child  papers  and  magazines,  your  games  and  puz 
zles. 

But  do  not  think  this  was  a  demure  and  lonesome 


242  Poet?  Homes. 

little  girl.  Far  from  it.  She  had  indeed,  her  child- 
life.  She  possessed  a  young  and  glad  spirit,  that  all 
the  years  since  have  not  been  able  to  filch  away. 

The  great  sea  was  her  beloved  companion.  She 
passionately  loved  the  sky,  and  clouds,  and  stars,  and 
the  sun  that  made  glory  in  the  east  and  west,  the 
changing  moon,  the  streaming  northern  lights  —  the 
very  winds  seemed  human  things,  that  laughed  or 
played  with,  that  chided  or  caressed  her.  The  waves 
that  whitened  the  sea,  and  that  broke  madly  on  the 
bleached  rocks,  filled  her  with  delight.  The  thunder, 
the  lightning,  and  the  rain;  every  bird  that  floated 
over,  whether  sandpiper,  gull,  the  sparrow  or  the 
loon — every  sail  that  glided  across,  thrilled  her  with 
glad  interest.  Ah!  this  was  a  brave,  fearless,  and 
joyous  little  girl. 

"  Under  the  light-house  no  sweet-brier  grew, 

Dry  was  the  grass,  and  no  daisies 
Waved  in  the  wind,  and  the  flowers  were  few 

That  lifted  their  delicate  faces. 

"  But,  O,  she  was  happy,  and  careless,  and  blest, 

Full  of  the  song-sparrow's  spirit ; 
Grateful  for  life,  for  the  least  and  the  best 

Of  the  blessings  that  mortals  inherit." 

That  wee  bit  of  rock  in  mid-ocean  was  no  prison  to 
her,  but  a  most  dear  and  wonderful  home.     Every 


Mrs.  Cetta    Thaxter.  143 

inch  of  it  was  most  precious.  There  were  shells, 
white,  and  gray,  and  gold-colored,  and  violet.  Myri 
ads  of  many-colored  creatures  and  plants  inhabited 
the  still  pools.  Much  tenderness  she  felt  for  these, 
wondrous  and  beautiful  as  they  are,  that  dwelt,  each 
in  its  own  peculiar  fashion,  among  the  rocks.  Their 
wisdom  was  more  amusing  than  the  best  game  ever 
played.  Then  there  was  always  something  new  ap 
pearing  —  if  but  the  coming  and  going  of  the  tide, 
or  the  drift-wood  washed  ashore  from  some  sad  wreck 
or  far-off  coast. 

Here,  too,  a  few  flowers  and  grasses  grew.  There 
was  one  root  of  fern  that  she  watched  and  cherished 
year  after  year.  She  gathered  the  golden-rod,  and 
crowned  herself  with  garlands  of  wild  pink  morning- 
glories,  or  with  a  crown  of  the  marigolds  that  grew 
on  her  wee  plat  of  ground ;  and  the  gold-colored 
shells  were  strung  into  necklaces  like  beads.  So 
adorned,  and  lithe  and  graceful  as  a  fawn,  she  flitted 
from  rock  to  rock,  the  sprite  of  an  enchanted  island. 

The  picture  is  before  us  in  this  song :  — 

THE   SANDPIPER. 

"  Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  Sandpiper  and  I ; 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  drift-wood,  bleached  and  dry. 


Poefs  Homes. 

The  wild  waves  reacli  their  hands  for  it, 
The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs 

As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit  — 
One  little  Sandpiper  and  I. 

"  Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 
Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky  ; 

Lake  silent  ghosts,  in  misty  shrouds, 
Stand  out  the  white  light-houses  high. 

Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach, 
I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 

As  fast,  we  flit  along  the  beach  — 
One  little  Sandpiper  and  I. 

"  I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry ; 
He  start  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong ; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye  ; 
Staunch  friends  are  we,  well-tried  and  strong, 

The  little  Sandpiper  and  I. 

"  Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night, 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  ? 
My  drift-wood  fire  will  burn  so  bright ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky  ; 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  Sandpiper  and  I  ?  " 


But  the  chief  of  her  pleasures  was  sometimes  al 
vening  to  light  the  lamps  in  the  light-house  tower. 


Mrs.    Celia    Thaxter.  245 

ft  was  so  great  a  thing  for  a  litile  maiden  to  light  the 
stately  ships  upon  their  way ! 

This  strong,  lightsome  nature  loved  her  freedom 
well.  Wide  nature,  with  its  beauty,  was  far  more 
dear  to  her  than  either  dolls  or  "  patchwork."  Per 
haps  she  disliked  small,  irksome  duties  even  more 
than  do  other  children. 

Afterward,  when  she  was  spirited  away  to  the  main 
land  to  live,  she  found  everybody  so  busy  it  was  as 
tonishing  to  witness — doing  all  sorts  of  work  under 
the  sun.  She  that  had  studied  the  great  out-of-door 
world  so  eagerly,  now  as  closely  considered  this 
"  patchwork  "  of  our  every-day  living.  Slowly,  very 
slowly,  she  found  out  a  secret  worth  all  the  beauty  she 
had  lost.  Let  me  tell  you  it  in  her  own  words  to  the 
children  :  — 

"  I'll  whisper  it  in  your  ear.  This  is  it :  That  work 
i  5  among  the  best  blessings  God  gave  the  world  ;  that 
to  be  useful  and  helpful,  even  in  the  smallest  ways, 
brings  a  better  bliss  than  all  the  delightful  things  you 
can  think  of  put  together,  and  this  bliss  is  within  the 
reach  of  every  human  being." 

I  will  assure  you,  young  readers,  one  thing  is 
true.  She  who  was  the  Spray  Sprite  is  able  to  furnish 
your  Cooking  Club  with  the  best  and  surest  receipts 
they  ever  found. 


246  Poets'  Homes, 

And  is  not  good  thinking  as  valuable  in  the  homely 
as  in  the  fine  affairs  of  life  ?  I  think  so. 

One  summer  day,  not  long  ago,  Mrs.  Thaxter  took 
a  few  friends  across  the  water  from  Appledore  to  her 
childhood  home. 

There  was  still  the  dangerous  landing  where  the 
little  maid  once  delighted  to  wait  at  evening,  with  a 
lamp,  to  light  some  loved  one  into  the  unsafe  cove. 
There  were  the  white-bleached  rocks,  among  which, 
long  ago,  the  little  dun  cow  caught  her  hoof,  and  so 
came  to  her  death,  much  to  the  grief  of  this  same  lit 
tle  maid.  There,  best  of  all,  was  the  stone  cottage. 
"This,"  she  said,  "is  the  window  where  my  flowers 
grew  in  winter."  A  deep,  roomy  window  it  was. 
Here,  doubtless,  did  the  child  witness  the  awful 
"wreck  of  the  Pocahontas,"  which  you  will  find 
among  her  poems. 

Up  from  the  cottage  the  near-covered  way  led  to  the 
tower,  whitewashed  within,  and  an  opening  or  two 
looking  out  upon  the  sea. 

The  tower  itself  at  the  base  was  large  enough  to 
hold  the  winter's  stores,  that  were  always  provided 
with  as  much  forethought  as  if  the  island  were  a  ship 
fitting  out  for  an  arctic  voyage.  Everything  is  en 
tirely  "  ship-shape  "  in  and  about  the  light-house. 

Up  the  winding  stairway  the  party  ascended  to  the 


Mrs.   Celia    ttaxter.  249 

very  top,  where  the  light  is  flashed  out  over  the  sea. 
If  you  look  into  the  lenses  of  the  lamp,  the  views 
reflected  are  the  prettiest  pictures  you  ever  saw.  You 
look  out  the  windows,  and  the  views  themselves  are 
wonderful,  so  far  above  you  are,  and  the  sea  on  every 
side  at  your  feet.  The  vast  extent  of  water  nowhere 
broken  save  by  the  islands,  a  fishing-smack,  and  here 
and  there  a  sail,  — 

"  As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean.*' 

Once  more  below,  they  climb  about  the  cliffs,  watch 
the  breakers  wash  the  barnacle-covered  rocks;  then, 
just  as  the  sun  is  seemingly  dipping  into  the  waves  of 
liie  radiant  west,  the  party,  laden  with  wild  morning- 
glory  vines,  re-embark  for  home. 

Nearing  Appledore,  the  rudder  gets  entangled  in  a 
cable  that  forms  a  part  of  trie  moorings  for  the  small 
fleet  anchored  off  the  rocky  shore.  The  amateur 
oarsman  must  row  —  who  is  to  manage  the  unshipped 
rudder?  The  poet-captain,  with  a  few  dexterous 
movements  of  her  masterly  hands,  makes  all  right 
again,  and  they  merrily  go  their  way. 

And  "  how  does  she  look  ? "  you  ask  ?  Ah,  that  is 
a  hard  question,  and  words  are  very  poor  things  to 
paint  with. 


250  Poefs  Homes. 

First,  think  of  all  the  fretfulness,  complainings,  dis 
content,  selfishness,  narrowness,  and  ugliness  you  ever 
saw  in  faces  —  then  know  that  this  lady  of  whom  I 
write  has  a  face  as  far  from  these  as  freedom  is  from 
bondage. 

And  do  you  not  know  how  pleasant  it  is  to  look 
into  a  bright  room  full  of  pictures,  and  books,  and 
flowers,  and  color,  and  all  sorts  of  lovely  furnishings, 
quaint  and  surprising  ?  —  with  a  constant  fire  upon 
the  hearth  that  sparkles,  gleams,  and  glows,  and  illu 
mines  the  whole  ? 

Just  so  it  is  to  look  into  this  face.  It  is  one  to 
inspire  you  with  the  belief  that  this  is  a  glad  and  glo 
rious  world.  It  is  a  face  also  that  draws  a  lovable 
child  to  itself.  This  you  would  know,  had  I  not  told 
you,  from  this  — 

SLUMBER  SONG. 

"  Thou,  little  child,  with  tender,  clinging  arms, 
Drop  thy  sweet  head,  my  darling,  down,  and  rest 

Upon  my  shoulder,  —  rest,  with  all  thy  charms ; 
Be  soothed  and  comforted,  be  loved  and  blest. 

"  Against  thy  silken,  honey-colored  hair 

I  lean  a  loving  cheek,  a  mute  caress ; 
Close,  close  I  gather  thee,  and  kiss  thy  fair 

White  eyelids,  sleep  so  softly  doth  oppress. 


Mrs.   Celia    Thaxter.  251 

"  Dear  little  head,  that  lies  in  calm  content 
Within  the  gracious  hollow  that  God  made 

In  every  human  shoulder,  where  He  meant 
Some  tired  head  for  comfort  should  be  laid. 


"  Most  like  a  heavy  folded  rose  thou  art, 
In  summer  air  reposing,  warm  and  still ; 

"  Dream  thy  sweet  dreams  upon  my  quiet  heart, 
I  watch  thy  slumbers,  naught  shall  do  thee  ill." 


Her  head  is  exquisite  ;  it  has  the  proud  grace  that 
queens  in  our  childish  dreams  possess.  This  you 
might  have  thought  from  the  poem  "Courage.'-' 
About  it  the  dark-brown  hair,  so  early  mingled  with 
gray,  is  snugly  arranged,  usually  in  encircling  braids. 
Her  eyes  are  deep  blue,  and  her  cheeks  are  slightly 
bronzed  in  summer  with  the  strong  sea-breeze.  Her 
figure  is  tall,  full,  lithe,  and  of  exceeding  grace.  So 
true  an  artist  is  she,  that,  whether  she  will  or  not, 
whatever  she  touches,  however  homely,  is  lovely  in 
the  doing,  and  beautiful  when  done. 

Dear  children,  now  we  have  found  the  spring 
among  the  rocks,  you  would  like  to  know  why  it  is 
so  rich  and  unfailing  ?  You,  too,  would  know  the 
secret  of  this  poet's  power  ? 

I  think  it  comes  from  a  sweet  and  powerful  soul, 
one  that  would  be  sorry  to  see  the  least  little  creature 
in  God's  world  suffer ;  yet  one  so  dauntless  that,  I 


252 


Poets'  Homes. 


truly  believe,  were  the  veriest  tempest  of  sorrow  in 
this  sorrowing  world  to  sweep  across  her,  this  brave 
cheer  would  rise  above  it  as  steadfast,  and  helpful, 
and  clear,  as  that  light  in  mid-ocean  that  burns  and 
glows  always  —  now  golden  and  then  red. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

THERE  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  New 
York  Tribune,  in  1859,  two  poems  which  at 
tracted  a  great  deal  of  attention.  The  subjects  were 
as  different  from  each  other  as  possible,  and  no  one 
would  have  thought  that  the  verse  in  which  they 
were  embodied  could  have  come  from  the  same  hand. 
I  will  tell  you  about  them  in  a  few  words.  There  was 
at  the  time,  in  New  York,  a  Cuban  planter,  who  was 
said  to  be  very  rich,  and  who  was  engaged  to  a  young 
lady  in  that  city.  He  had  purchased  for  her,  as  a 
bridal  present,  a  number  of  most  expensive  jewels, 
which  the  newspapers  of  the  day  described  exten 
sively,  not  forgetting,  of  course,  to  mention  their  cost 
in  dollars  and  cents.  If  I  remember  rightly,  they 
also  described  the  young  lady's  bridal  outfit,  silks, 
laces,  and  so  on,  and  the  sums  which  they,  too,  cost. 
Briefly,  then,  the  newspapers  made  a  public  fuss  over 

253 


254  Poets'  Homes. 

what  should  have  been  a  private  matter.  It  seemed 
to  a  young  gentleman  who  was  working  in  a  subordi 
nate  position  on  the  Tribune  that  this  was  a  fit  sub 
ject  for  a  piece  of  satirical  verse,  and  he  accordingly 
set  to  work  and  wrote  one  which  he  entitled  "  The 
Diamond  Wedding."  It  made  a  great  sensation  and 
a  great  row ;  for  the  father  of  the  young  lady,  who 
saw  no  impropriety  in  the  notoriety  which  the  report 
ers  had  heaped  upon  her  in  prose,  saw  a  dreadful 
impropriety  in  any  reference  to  her  wedding  in  poetry. 
I  think,  myself,  that  he  should  have  been  grateful  to 
the  poet  for  not  mentioning  her  name,  and  the  name 
of  her  intended  husband  ;  but  he  thought  otherwise, 
and  sent  a  challenge  to  the  poor  poet.  I  forget  ex 
actly  how  it  was  settled,  but  there  was  no  duel,  and 
no  apology  on  the  part  of  the  poet.  Such  is  the 
history  of  "The  Diamond  Wedding,"  which  proved 
that  a  new  poet  had  come,  and  one  who  could,  if  he 
chose,  snatch  the  laurels  from  the  brows  of  all  the 
humorous  poets  of  America.  The  other  poem  that  I 
have  referred  to  displayed  a  grim  kind  of  humor 
which  was  new  in  American  poetry.  It  was  about  a 
stern  old  man  who  made  this  year  a  memorable'  one 
in  the  history  of  the  United  States,  by  boldly  march 
ing  with  a  few  men  into  Virginia,  and  capturing 
Harper's  Ferry.  "How  Old  Brown  took  Harper's 


Edmund  Clarence  Stcdman,  255 

Ferry "  made  a  great  sensation,  and  ought  to  have 
made  it,  for  there  was  no  American  poet  who  might 
not  have  been  proud  to  have  written  it. 

My  good  friend  Bayard  Taylor  and  I  were  living 
together  in  the  same  house  when  these  poems  ap 
peared,  and  I  remember  his  coming  home  one  after 
noon  and  telling  me  that  he  had  that  day,  or  the  day 
before,  met  their  author  in  the  editorial  rooms  of 
the  Tribune,  and  had  had  a  talk  with  him,  and  that 
be  liked  him  very  much.  A  few  evenings  afterwards 
this  likable  young  poet  came  to  see  me,  and  I  was 
charmed  with  him.  He  had  read  much,  I  discovered, 
he  talked  well ;  and  he  was  what  most  poets  are  not 

—  modest.     His  personal  appearance  you  see  in  the 
accompanying  portrait;   for,  though  some  eighteen 
years  have  passed  since  then,  I  see  no  change  in  him. 
If  I  could  only  say  the  same  of  myself ! 

Such  was  my  first  meeting  with  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman.  I  asked  him  to  show  me  his  poems 
printed  and  unprinted,  for  he  told  me  that  he  had 
enough  to  make  a  small  volume,  and  he  did  so.  I 
read  them  with  great  care ;  I  corrected  them  where  I 
thought  they  needed  it,  and  I  tried  to  get  a  publisher 
for  him.  I  think  that  my  opinion  was  not  without 
weight  with  the  gentleman  who  became  his  publisher, 

—  the  late  Mr.  Charles  Scribner.     "  Poems,  Lyrical 


256  Poets'  Homes. 

and  Idyllic,"  which  was  issued  in  the  spring  of  1860, 
was  and  is  the  best  first  book  that  I  ever  read.  The 
two  poems  that  opened  it  showed  that  the  writer  had 
read  the  greatest  poet  of  our  time,  Alfred  Tenny 
son  ;  but  they  also  showed  that  his  own  originality  had 
not  been  overpowered  by  his  admiration  for  this 
master.  "  Penelope,"  the  second  poem,  was  and  is 
worthy  to  be  read  with  Tennyson's  noble  poem  of 
"  Ulysses."  The  hand  of  a  fine  Greek  scholar  is 
visible  in  every  line.  That  he  was  familiar  with  the 
scenery  of  New  England,  and  the  early  life  of  its 
people,  was  evident  in  "  The  Freshet,"  which  is  still 
the  best  example  of  American  idyllic  poetry.  We  feel 
in  reading  it  that  Mr.  Stedman  knew  what  he  was 
writing  about. 

He  is  a  born  New  Englander,  a  native  of  the  land 
of  wooden  nutmegs,  Connecticut.  He  comes  of  a 
good  family,  and  a  poetic  family.  One  of  his  ances 
tors,  the  Rev.  Aaron  Cleveland,  wrote  poetry,  I  am 
told,  though  I  have  never  seen  any  of  it,  and  a 
cousin,  the  Rev.  Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe,  is  well  known 
as  a  writer  of  religious  verse.  He  may  be  said,  in 
deed,  to  have  inherited  poetry  from  his  mother,  who 
figured  in  Dr.  Griswold's  "  Female  Poets,"  and  later 
as  the  author  of  a  tragedy  called  "  Bianco  Caprello." 

Mr.  Stedman  was  born  in  Hartford  on  the  8th  of 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  25; 

October,  1833.  When  he  was  about  two  years  old  he 
was  sent  to  Norwich,  where  he  lived  with  his  great- 
uncle,  Mr.  James  Stedman,  by  whom  he  was  strictly 
trained.  At  any  rate  it  was  the  fashion,  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago,  in  New  England,  to  train  young  people 
strictly,  and  a  good  fashion  it  was,  too,  for  some  of 
them.  Whether  it  was  the  best  training  for  a  poet 
may  be  doubted. 

Uncle  Stedman,  who  was  a  jurist  and  a  scholar, 
looked  after  the  education  of  his  brilliant  nephew, 
who  was  thoroughly  grounded  in  his  native  tongue. 
At  the  early  age  of  sixteen  he  was  sent  to  Yale  Col 
lege,  where  he  was  among  the  foremost  in  English 
composition  and  Greek.  He  wrote  an  English  poem 
for  a  periodical  which  was  published  by  the  students, 
and  a  very  clever  poem  it  was  considered.  The  dis 
cipline  of  Yale  was  stricter  than  suited  the  mercurial 
temperament  of  the  young  poet;  he  fell  under  the 
censure  of  the  college  authorities,  and  quitted  college 
without  taking  a  degree.  His  error,  whatever  it  was, 
could  not  have  been  a  very  grave  one,  for  the  Univer 
sity  afterwards  enrolled  him  among  the  alumni  foi 
1853,  with  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts. 

When  he  was  nineteen  he  was  managing  a  news 
paper  at  Norwich.  In  the  following  year  he  married 
a  Connecticut  girl,  and  became  the  owner  of  Tht 


258  Poets'  Homes. 

Winsted  Herald,  which  soon  rose  to  be  one  of  the 
most  important  of  the  political  papers  in  the  State, 
and  the  most  influential  literary  paper  ever  published 
in  a  country  town.  Of  the  life  of  Mr.  Stedman  dur 
ing  the  next  five  or  six  years  I  know  nothing,  except 
that  the  latter  part  of  it  was  spent  in  New  York. 
Whether  it  was  ambition  which  sent  him  there,  or  the 
desire  of  bettering  his  fortune,  he  has  never  told  me, 
but  I  imagine  it  was  both. 

I  have  no  doubt  but  that  he  had  to  struggle  to 
obtain  a  foothold  in  literature,  —  every  unknown  man 
of  letters  has  to  struggle  in  a  great  city,  —  but  he  ob 
tained  it,  for  when  I  first  knew  him  he  was  writing  on 
The  Tribune,  as  I  have  already  said. 

Mr.  Stedman  was  living  among  the  Bohemians, 
five  score  or  otherwise,  when  I  first  visited  him,  and 
with  him  were  his  wife  and  his  children,  two  boys 
the  youngest  of  whom,  Master  Arthur  Stedman,  is 
now  fitting  himself  to  go  to  Yale  College,  where  I 
hope  he  will  take  any  degree  that  he  wants,  even  that 
of  the  Grand  Panjandrum,  if  they  confer  it  there. 

Mr.  Stedman  remained  on  The  Tribune  until  The 
World  was  started,  when  he  transferred  his  talent  to 
that  journal.  This  was  in  the  fall  or  winter  of  1860. 
He  was  one  of  the  editors  of  The  World  when  Fort 
Sumter  was  fired  upon,  and  when  the  news  of  the 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  259 

firing  was  sent  over  the  wires  he  wrote  a  poem  upon 
it,  which  was  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  very  first,  poem 
of  any  note  which  the  impending  war  awoke.  When 
the  war  broke  out  he  went  to  Washington  as  the  army 
correspondent  of  The  World,  and  a  very  able  one  he 
proved  himself.  I  forget  whether  his  letters  excelled 
those  of  other  correspondents  for  accuracy,  but  they 
certainly  excelled  them  in  spirit. 

He  was  at  the  first  battle  of  Bull  Run,  where  the 
North  was  routed,  as  we  all  remember.  Other  cor 
respondents  sent  letters  to  their  papers  about  it,  but 
none  came  from  him.  "  Where  is  he  ? "  his  friends 
asked,  but  nobody  knew. 

Two,  or  perhaps  three,  days  passed  before  he 
returned  to  New  York.  The  next  day  there  ap 
peared  in  The  World  a  long  and  graphic  letter  about 
the  lost  battle  which  he  had  witnessed, — a  letter 
which  was  the  town's  talk  for  days.  Altogether  it 
was  the  best  single  letter  written  during  the  whole 
war. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  war  Mr.  Stedman  resigned 
his  position  on  "  The  World,  and  entered  the  office 
of  Attorney  General  Bates  at  Washington.  In  Jan 
uary,  1864,  he  returned  to  New  York  with  his  family, 
and  published  his  second  collection  of  verse,  "  Alice 
of  Monmouth,"  which  may  be  described  as  a  little 


^60  Poets'  Homes. 

poetical  novel.  The  opening  scenes  are  laid  in  Mon- 
mouth  Co.,  New  Jersey  ;  the  middle  and  later  ones  in 
the  battle-fields  and  hospitals  of  Virginia.  We  are 
introduced  to  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt,  a  wealthy 
old  farmer  of  Monmouth;  then  we  pass  to  his  son 
Hermann,  a  cold,  calculating  man  of  the  law;  at  last 
we  come  to  his  grandson  Hugh,  a  noble,  manly  youth, 
in  whom  the  smouldering  embers  of  the  Van  Ghelts 
survive,  kindling  a  flame  as  royal  as  it  is  high 

Hugh  falls  in  love  with  Alice  Dale,  whom  he  sees 
for  the  first  time  in  the  strawberry  fields.  He  marries 
her,  and,  being  disowned  by  his  father,  the  young 
couple  settle  in  an  old  farm-house  which  Hugh's 
grandfather  had  given  him  years  before. 

The  rebellion  breaks  out,  and  Hugh  is  off  for  the 
wars  with  a  company  of  horsemen,  as  their  captain. 
The  quiet  house-life  of  the  young  wife,  and  the 
stirring  field-life  of  the  young  soldier,  are  placed  in 
contrast,  the  latter  leading  to  a  picturesque  descrip 
tion  of  an  encampment,  and  a  spirited  cavalry  song, 
which  is  supposed  to  be  sung  by  the  brave  troopers  of 
the  North. 

Then  we  have  a  glimpse  of  a  military  hospital 
in  Washington,  with  Alice  therein  as  a  nurse ;  and 
there  is  a  description  of  the  cavalry  fight  in  which 
Colonel  Hugh  Van  Ghelt  is  wounded,  and  from  which 


Edmund  Clarence   Stedman.  261 

he  is  borne  away  to  die  in  a  country  hospital,  with 
his  wife  and  repentant  grandfather  by  his  side. 
Such  is  the  story  of  "  Alice  of  Monmouth." 
Here  is  the  cavalry  song  I  have  just  spoken  of : 

"  Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 
Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  I 

HALT! 

Each  carbine  sent  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  1  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight  I 

"  Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome  ; 
Thro'  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  heaven  !     No  thoughts  of  home  I 
The  guerdons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

CHARGE! 

Cling,  clang !  forward  all  ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right  ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges  I 
Now,  comrades,  bring  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

WHEEL  ! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  I  clang !  backward  all ! 

Home,  and  good-night ! " 

There  is  a  notion  about,  and  many  people  enter 
tain  it  without  thinking,  that  a  man  cannot  be  at  one 
and  the  same  time  a  poet  and  a  man  of  business.  It 


262  Poets'   Homes. 

is  a  mistake.  Fitz  Greene  Halleck  was  for  many 
years  a  competent  clerk  of  John  Jacob  Astor. 
Charles  Sprague  was  for  forty-five  years  teller  and 
cashier  in  a  Boston  bank.  Samuel  Rogers,  the  Eng 
lish  poet,  was  all  his  life  a  banker,  and  a  very  success 
ful  one,  too.  To  these  names  must  be  added  that  of 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  who  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  a  firm  of  stock-brokers,  which  he  started 
shortly  after  his  return  to  New  York.  They  had  a 
suite  of  offices  in  Exchange  Place,  and  dealt  in  gov 
ernment  securities,  railway  stocks  and  bonds,  and  I 
know  not  what  besides,  including  petroleum,  in  which 
fortunes  were  then  being  made  and  lost  with  great 
rapidity. 

I  saw  less  of  Mr.  Stedman  now  than  before,  for  he 
had  his  business  to  attend  to  and  I  had  mine.  I  knew 
nothing  of  longs  and  shorts,  puts  and  calls,  and  he 
knew  nothing  of  exports  and  debentures,  and  other 
custom-house  matters. 

Mr.  Stedman,  the  stock-broker,  was  still  Mr.  Sted 
man  the  poet,  as  the  readers  of  our  magazines  occa 
sionally  saw.  Five  years  passed  before  he  made 
another  collection  of  his  verse,  which  appeared  in 
1869,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Blameless  Prince,  and 
other  Poems."  I  shall  not  tell  you  the  story  of 
"  The  Blameless  Prince  "  —  you  have  already  guessed 


Edmund  Clarence   Stedman.  263 

that  it  is  a  story  poem,  —  nor  anything  about  it  except 
that  I  think  it  grew,  in  some  mysterious  way,  out  of 
a  book  that  Queen  Victoria  had  written  about  her 
dead  husband,  —  "Life  in  the  Highlands,"  I  think  it 
was  called. 

Mr.  Stedman  looked  the  subject  over  with  me  be 
fore  he  wrote  it,  and  I  —  but  I  must  not  tell  tales  out 
of  school.  So  much,  or  rather  so  little,  concerning 
"The  Blameless  Prince."  There  are  twenty-seven 
miscellaneous  poems  in  the  volume  in  which  it 
appeared.  Among  others  is  a  poem  about  "  Country 
Sleighing,"  which  no  other  American  poet  could  have 
written,  and  which  I  have  always  thought  the  best 
sleighing-song  in  the  language.  Another,  entitled 
"  Laura,  My  Darling,"  is  a  poem  addressed  to  his 
wife.  Here  is  a  stanza  from  it : 

"  Laura,  my  darling,  there's  hazel-eyed  Fred, 

Asleep  in  his  own  tiny  cot,  by  the  bed ; 

And  little  King  Arthur,  whose  curls  have  the  art 

Of  sending  their  tendrils  so  close  round  my  heart ; 

Yet  fairer  than  either,  and  dearer  than  both, 

Is  the  true  one  who  gave  me  in  girlhood  her  troth ; 

For  we,  when  we  mated  for  evil  and  good, 

What  were  we,  darling,  but  babes  in  the  wood  ?  " 

It  is  a  charming  glimpse  of  the  home-life  of  a 
roung  poet,  is  it  not,  this  little  picture  of  Mr.  Sted 


264  Poets'   Homes. 

man's  wife  and  children  ?  Equally  charming,  but  not 
as  true,  is  this  pretty  song,  for  while  there  is  a  Fred 
erick  Stedman  and  an  Arthur  Stedman,  there  is  no 
Katherine  Stedman  and  no  Elizabeth  Stedman  that 
I  ever  saw  or  heard  of. 

"WHAT  THE  WINDS  BRING. 

" '  Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  cold  ? ' 
The  North  Wind,  Freddy  ;  and  all  the  snow  ; 

And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  the  fold 
When  the  North  begins  to  blow. 

"  '  Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  heat  ? 

The  South  Wind,  Katy ;  and  corn  will  grow, 
And  peaches  redden  for  you  to  eat, 

When  the  South  begins  to  blow. 

"  •  Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  rain  ? ' 
The  East  Wind,  Arty  ;  and  farmers  know 

That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane 
When  the  East  begins  to  blow. 

" « Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  flowers  ? ' 
The  West  Wind,  Bessy ;  and  soft  and  low 

The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours, 
When  the  West  begins  to  blow." 

Four  years  after  the  publication  of  "  The  Blame 
less  Prince,"  Mr.  Stedman  brought  out  the  first  col 
lected  edition  of  his  Poetical  Works.  In  1875  ^e 
published  his"  Victorian  Poets,"  a  collection  of  essays 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  265 

on  a  number  of  English  singers  who  have  illustrated 
the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria. 

I  have  mentioned  one  mistaken  notion  that  many 
people  entertain,  namely,  that  a  man  cannot  be  a 
poet  and  a  man  of  business  ;  but  I  have  not  men 
tioned  another,  namely,  that  a  poet  cannot  be  a  critic. 
If  poets  are  not  the  best  critics  of  poetry,  musicians 
are  not  the  best  critics  of  music,  architects  of  archi 
tecture,  and  painters  of  painting.  The  idea  is  ab 
surd! 

Mr.  Stedman's  "  Victorian  Poets "  is  the  most  im 
portant  contribution  ever  made  by  an  American  writer 
to  the  critical  literature  of  the  English  poets.  It  is 
not  a  book  to  be  read,  however,  by  the  young  readers 
of  WIDE  AWAKE  j  but  it  is  a  book  which  they  ought 
to  read  when  they  come  to  the  last  of  their  teens. 
Mr.  Stedman  is  living  in  New  York,  and  is  still  in 
business  as  a  stock-broker. 

If  any  reader  of  this  brief  paper  has  any  money  to 
invest  in  stocks,  I  dare  say  that  he  will  invest  it  for 
him.  What  money  /have  I  generally  invest  with  the 
butcher,  the  baker,  the  candle-stick  maker,  and  other 
prosaic  men  of  business,  and  not  with  my  poetical 
friend,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

"AS  we  drove  through  the  quiet  old  town,  I 
-tV  thought  Rivermouth  the  prettiest  place  in  the 
world ;  and  I  think  so  still.  The  streets  are  long  and 
wide,  shaded  by  gigantic  American  elms,  whose  droop 
ing  branches,  interlacing  here  and  there,  span  the 
avenues  with  arches  graceful  enough  to  be  the  handi 
work  of  fairies.  Many  of  the  houses  have  small 
flower  gardens  in  front,  gay  in  the  season  with  china- 
asters,  and  are  substantially  built,  with  massive  chim 
ney-stacks  and  protruding  eaves.  A  beautiful  river 
goes  rippling  by  the  town,  and,  after  turning  and 
twisting  among  a  lot  of  tiny  islands,  empties  itself 
into  the  sea.  The  harbor  is  so  fine  that  the  largest 
ships  can  sail  directly  up  to  the  wharves  and  drop 
anchor.  Only  they  don't.  Few  ships  come  to  River- 
mouth  now.  Commerce  drifted  into  other  ports. 
The  phantom  fleet  sailed  off  one  day,  and  never 

366 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  267 

came  back  again  The  crazy  old  warehouses  are 
empty :  and  barnai  les  and  eelgrass  cling  to  the  piles 
of  the  crumbling  wharves,  where  the  sunshine  lies 
lovingly,  bringing  out  the  faint  spicy  odor  that 
haunts  the  place,  —  the  ghost  of  the  old  dead  West 
India  trade !  " 

It  is  thus  that  Mr.  Aldrich,  in  his  clever  book  en 
titled  "The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,"  truthfully  charac 
terizes  that  once  famous  old  town  by  the  sea,  which, 
on  the  maps  at  least,  goes  by  the  name  of  Portsmouth. 
He  has  omitted  to  say,  however,  that  the  quaint  old 
city  is  peopled  with  the  shadowy  shapes  of  many  gen 
erations,  and  that,  like  all  old  towns  in  New  England, 
it  has  its  queer  people,  its  romantic  and  eccentric  tra 
ditions,  and  that  antique  flavor  of  aristocratic  better 
days,  in  comparison  with  which  the  snug  briskness  of 
a  modern  town  seems  cheap  and  mean.  Around  lie 
woody  hills  and  emerald  meadows,  through  which  the 
broad  river  goes  brimming  to  the  sea.  At  the  decay 
ing  wharves,  now  and  then,  rest  the  sea-worn  hulks, 
thither  drift  the  song  and  story,  tradition  and  adven 
ture,  terror  and  romance,  of  the  men  who  "  plough  the 
raging  main." 

It  was  in  this  very  same  town,  which  he  pictures  so 
well,  that  Mr.  Aldrich  was  born,  on  the  eleventh  of 
November,  1836 ;  but,  before  he  "had  a  chance  to  be 


268  Poets'  Homes. 

come  very  well  acquainted  with  that  pretty  New  Eng 
land  town,"  his  parents  removed  to  New  Orleans, 
where  the  first  few  years  of  his  life  were  passed,  and 
where,  also,  he  developed  some  very  queer  notions 
with  regard  to  Northern  people  in  general  and  Yan 
kees  in  particular.  "To  be  frank,"  he  says,  in  the 
book  already  quoted,  "my  idea  of  the  north  was 
about  as  accurate  as  that  entertained  by  the  well- 
educated  Englishmen  of  the  present  day  concerning 
America.  I  suppose,  the  inhabitants  were  divided 
into  two  classes,  —  Indians  and  white  people:  that 
the  Indians  occasionally  dashed  down  on  New  York, 
and  scalped  any  woman  or  child  (giving  the  prefer 
ence  to  children  )  whom  they  caught  lingering  in  the 
outskirts  after  nightfall ;  that  the  white  men  were 
either  hunters  or  schoolmasters,  and  that  it  was  win 
der  pretty  much  all  the  year  round.  The  prevailing 
style  of  architecture  I  took  to  be  log  cabins." 

With  these  singular  ideas  developed  in  his  mind, 
and,  in  truth,  "  a  Northern  man  with  Southern  princi 
ples,"  young  Aldrich  returned  to  Portsmouth  to  be 
educated.  The  sea  voyage  was  comparatively  pleas 
ant,  and  the  boy  became  wonderfully  attracted  by  an 
old  weather-beaten  tar,  whose  head  was  quite  smooth 
and  flat,  as  if  somebody  had  sat  down  on  him  when 
he  was  very  young,  but  which,  nevertheless,  wa$ 


TTiomas    £  alley  Aldrich.  269 

stored  with  a  rich  fund  of  anecdote  and  good  humor. 

The  account  of  all  this,  and  of  his  arrival  in  Bos 
ton  harbor,  of  the  ride  to  Portsmouth,  and  of  his 
school-life  there,  is  given  in  that  almost  inimitable  of 
books,  "The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy."  This  story  is 
about  as  nearly  autobiographical  as  the  author 
dared  to  make  it ;  and,  therefore,  whoever  wishes  to 
know  more  of  Mr.  Aldrich's  early  years  than  can  pos 
sibly  be  told  in  this  chapter,  should  of  course  take 
occasion  to  read  this  book,  that  is,  if  he  has  not  done 
so  already. 

During  his  stay  in  Portsmouth,  Aldrich  dwelt 
under  the  roof  of  his  grandfather,  "  a  hale,  cheery  old 
gentleman,  as  straight  and  as  bald  as  an  arrow," 
whose  domestic  affairs,  however,  were  under  the  im 
mediate  charge  of  a  maiden  sister,  a  very  philan 
thropic  personage,  whose  strongest  weak  point  was  a 
belief  in  the  efficacy  of  "  hot  drops  "  as  a  cure  for  all 
known  diseases.  The  boy  fared  admirably  in  the 
company  of  his  elders,  and,  albeit  he  had  some 
peculiar  whims  of  his  own,  he  was  allowed  to  do 
pretty  much  as  he  pleased,  —  except  on  Sundays, 
which  were,  indeed,  most  dreadful  days  to  him ! 

And  no  wonder,  for  nothing  was  done  to  make 
these  days  seem  cheerful.  Gloom  began  on  Saturday 
evening  and  ceased  late  on  Sabbath  night,  and,  during 


270  Poets'   Homes. 

the  hours  of  its  continuance,  genial  converse,  harm 
less  books,  smiles,  lightsome  hearts,  all  were  banished. 
The  Sabbath-school  hour  was  the  pleasantest  through 
the  day,  for  young  Aldrich  liked  the  Sabbath-school 
where  all  was  sunshine  and  everybody  had  a  bright 
face.  The  meeting,  which  followed,  was  a  return  to 
the  gloom,  as  witness  this  assertion  :  — 

"  I  go  to  meeting,  joining  my  grandfather,  who 
doesn't  appear  to  be  any  relation  to  me  this  day. 
Our  minister  holds  out  very  little  hope  to  any  of  us 
of  being  saved.  Convinced  that  I  am  a  lost  creature, 
in  common  with  the  human  family,  I  return  home 
behind  my  guardian  at  a  snail's  pace.  We  have  a 
cold  dinner.  I  saw  it  laid  out  yesterday.  There  is 
a  long  interval  between  this  repast  and  the  second 
service,  and  a  still  longer  interval  between  the  begin 
ning  and  the  end  of  that  service.  After  meeting,  mj 
grandfather  and  I  talk  a  walk.  We  visit — appropri 
ately  enough, — a  neighboring  graveyard.  I  am  by  this 
time  in  a  condition  of  mind  to  become  a  willing  in 
mate  of  the  place.  The  usual  evening  prayer  meet 
ing  is  postponed  for  some  reason.  At  half  past  eight 
I  go  to  bed." 

Of  such  a  direful  character  were  most  ot  the  Ports 
mouth  Sabbaths,  —  dreaded  not  only  by  young  Aid- 
rich  but  by  every  other  boy  as  well,  who  chanced 


Thomas    Bailey   Aldrich.  271 

some  thirty  odd  years  ago,  to  be  a  dweller  in  a  New 
England  village.  Sunday  is  a  blessed  day,  and 
therefore  it  shouldn't  be  made  a  day  freighted  with 
awful  gloom  and  terror ;  and  surely  when,  if  not  on 
the  Lord'-;,  day,  ought  young  and  old  hearts  to  be 
cheerful,  hopeful,  and  full  of  life  and  spirit  ? 

Shortly  after  his  arrival  at  Portsmouth,  Aldrich 
was  put  to  school,  —  at  the  Temple  Grammar  School 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  town.  A  Mr.  Grimshaw 
kept  here,  "  a  quiet,  kind-hearted  gentleman.  Though 
a  rigid  disciplinarian,  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  justice, 
was  a  reader  of  character,  and  the  boys  respected 
him."  It  was  not  long  before  the  new  comer  fell  into 
the  ways  and  notions  of  his  fellows.  As  he  himself 
admits,  these  latter  took  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  out 
of  him,  and  forced  him  to  become  more  manly  and 
self-reliant.  In  New  Orleans,  he  had  labored  under 
the  delusion  that  the  world  was  created  exclusively 
on  his  account:  at  Portsmouth,  he  discovered  that  it 
was  not ! 

But,  as  I  have  already  said.  I  cannot  repeat  the 
story  of  those  school-days,  though,  for  us,  the  interest 
attached  to  them  exceeds  that  of  any  other  period  of 
life.  You  will  find  the  history  of  them,  written  by 
one  of  the  principal  actors,  in  the  book  already 
alluded  to ;  and,  if  I  were  to  write  it  over  again,  it  is 


272 


Poets1  Homes. 


to  be  feared  that  I  should  only  write  in  the  very  same 
words. 

It  is  well  that  you  should  know  that  young  Aldrich 
was  a  diligent  and   faithful  student;  that,  although 


THOMAS  BAILEY   ALDRICH. 


fond  of  sport  and  an  adept  in  mischief,  — of  which,  by 
the  by,  there  was  always  much  going  on,  much  to  the 
annoyance  of  the  sober  and  more  sanctified  citizens 
of  the  place, — he  was  yet  fond  of  books,  and  rarely 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  373 

deserved  or  received  the  reprobation  of  his  instruct 
ors.  It  is  pleasant,  after  these  many  years  that 
have  lapsed  between  boyhood  and  the  present,  to 
know  that  the  teacher,  of  whom  mention  was  made 
above,  still  lives,  and  to  me  has  addressed  these 
words : 

"  With  the  hundreds  of  pupils  who  have  been  under 
my  instruction,  there  is  not  one  for  whom  I  entertain  a 
higher  regard  and  a  purer  affection  than  for  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich." 

Golden  words  are  these,  and  I  know  that  they  are 
earnest  and  full  of  heart.  And,  reader,  is  it  not  one 
of  the  pleasantest  thoughts  imaginable,  the  knowl 
edge  that,  perchance,  we  may  be  so  lovingly  remem 
bered  by  him  who  taught  us  in  early  life,  and  whom 
we  have  supposed  gone  to  dust  long  years  ago  ? 
Such  a  tribute  is  more  than  gold  to  a  man  who  merits 
it. 

Mr.  Aldrich  was  in  his  fifteenth  year  when  his 
father  died,  and  the  circumstances  governing  his 
future  life  were  thereby  materially  altered.  All  along, 
he  had  been  hoping  to  go  to  Harvard  College,  to 
complete  the  course  of  education  already  begun  ;  but 
now  both  the  dream  and  the  hope  vanished. 

One  day,  when  he  was  not  yet  over  his  disappoint 
ment,  a  letter  came  from  an  uncle  in  New  York, 


274  Poets'    Homes. 

offering  him  a  place  in  his  counting-room.  He  ac 
cepted  the  proposal,  although  it  was  hard  for  him  to 
give  up  becoming  a  Harvard  man. 

But  why,  it  might  be  asked,  was  his  uncle  so  urgent 
in  pushing  him  into  a  business  life  ?  " The  cause  was 
ti'iis,"  —  says  the  historian  of  these  years,  —  "  he  was 
afraid  that  I  would  turn  out  to  be  a  poet  before  he 
could  make  a  merchant  of  me.  His  fears  were  based 
upon  the  fact  that  I  had  published  in  the  Riverrnouth 
Barnacle  some  verses  addressed  in  a  familiar  manner 
'  To  the  Moon.'  Now,  the  idea  of  a  boy,  with  his 
living  to  get,  placing  himself  in  communication  with 
the  Moon,  struck  the  mercantile  mind  as  monstrous. 
]  t  was  not  only  a  bad  investment,  it  was  lunacy." 

With  the  close  of  his  school-days  at  Riverrnouth, 
the  "Story  of  a  Bad  Boy"  —  not  such  a  very  bad 
boy,  either,  as  one  might  suppose,  —  also  ends.  Like 
a  fantasy  the  past  rolls  back,  and  the  future  begins  ; 
the  limit  betwixt  boyhood  and  manhood  is  soon  over 
stepped,  and  now  it  is,  in  the  roaring,  tearing,  and 
enterprising  metropolis,  the  great  New  York,  that  the 
poet  first  sees  life  as  it  is,  instead  of  as  he  would 
have  it. 

For  three  years  he  remained  at  his  desk  in  the 
counting-room.  He  worked  faithfully  enough  at  his 
task,  but  each  day  the  task  grew  more  and  more  dis- 


Thomas    Bailey  Aldrich.  275 

tasteful,  and  poetry  had  indeed  more  charm  for  him 
than  all  the  figures  in  the  world. 

Occasionally,  he  took  advantage  of  some  leisure 
moments  to  weave  verses  after  his  own  way  ;  and  thus 
it  happened  that  a  very  good  poem  now  and  then 
saw  the  light  and  set  most  readers  to  thinking. 
"  Baby  Bell "  —  one  of  the  most  popular  poems  in 
our  literature,  —  was  written  by  Mr.  Aldrich  while  he 
was  yet  in  his  nineteenth  year. 

When  the  announcement  of  the  authorship  was 
made  no  one  was  willing  to  believe  that  a  mere  boy 
could  have  written  so  fatherly  a  poem,  —  for  did  not 
the  verses  betoken  a  most  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
mysteries  of  infant  life  ?  Such  was  the  fact,  however, 
and  such  it  must  remain. 

"  Baby  Bell "  has  always  been  very  generally  ad 
mired  by  all  classes  of  readers,  and  deservedly  so,  I 
think,  for  it  contains  some  of  the  most  delicate  and 
sweetest  touches  in  the  language.  What,  for  in 
stance,  can  be  more  tender  and  pathetic  than  the 
following :  — 

"  At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands. 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell  ? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair  J 

We  parted  back  her  silken  hair. 


276  Poets'  Homes. 

We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,  — 

Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers, 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Out  of  this  world  of  ours  !  " 

When  the  three  years  were  up,  the  poet  forsook  a 
business  life  and  chose  to  follow  instead  a  purely 
literary  existence.  He  believed  that  that  was  his 
proper  field  of  usefulness,  and  that  there  were  ways 
enough  open  to  yield  gain  to  the  worker. 

At  first,  he  secured  a  situation  as  "  reader "  for  a 
large  publishing  house  in  New  York ;  and  as  manu 
scripts  were  pretty  plentiful  in  those  days,  and  his 
literary  judgments  were  usually  quite  sound,  he 
derived  considerable  pecuniary  advantage  from  the 
new  employment. 

Reading  the  works  of  others,  however,  did  not  con 
sume  the  whole  of  his  time,  and,  as  occasion  offered 
and  the  spirit  moved,  he  wrote  original  articles  on 
every  conceivable  subject,  —  poems,  essays,  stories, 
sketches,  and  whatever  else  was  prompted.  While 
many  of  these  productions  were  of  an  epheme 
ral  character,  and  scarcely  worthy  of  remembrance 
now-a-days,  a  few  pieces  are  still  cherished  and  pre 
served  in  the  printed  works  of  the  author. 

In  these  years  also,  Mr.  Aldrich  was  editorially  con 
nected  with  the  New  York  Evening  Mirror,  the 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  279 

Home  Journal  and  the  Saturday  Press ;  and  at  the 
same  time  furnished  articles  for  Putnam's  Magazine, 
the  Knickerbocker,  Harper's  Monthly,  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  etc.,  etc. 

In  1854  he  published  his  first  book  of  poems, 
calling  it  "The  Bells;"  and,  two  years  later,  was 
printed  "  Daisy's  Necklace,  and  what  came  of  it "  — 
a  work  now  out  of  print.  In  1858,  appeared  "Baby 
Bell,  and  other  Poems,"  and  "The  Course  of  True 
Love;"  in  1861,  "  Pampina,  and  other  Poems,"  and 
in  1865,  Messrs.  Ticknor  &  Fields'  edition  of  his 
poems,  in  the  blue  and  gold  series. 

In  1866,  this  publishing  house,  having  perfected 
the  plan  of  an  eclectic  weekly  journal,  called  Every 
Saturday,  Mr.  Aldrich  was  invited  to  come  to  Boston 
to  take  charge  of  it.  Everybody,  —  or  at  least  most 
of  our  older  readers,  —  knows  with  what  admirable 
ability  and  success  this  publication  was  conducted. 
In  1874,  the  favorite  weekly  was  merged  into  another 
periodical  of  a  similiar  character,  and  Mr.  Aldrich 
retired  from  journalism.  He  still  continued  his  con 
nection  with  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  in  which,  indeed, 
almost  all  of  his  genuine  successes  have  been  made, 
among  them,  "  Margorie  Daw,"  <;  Prudence  Palfrey," 
and  other  short  and  interesting  stories. 

I    have   omitted   to   state   that  Mr.   Aldrich   was 


280  Poefs  Homes. 

married  to  a  New  York  lady  in  November,  1865,  and 
came  immediately  to  Boston.  It  was  to  this  young 
couple  that  another  poet,  Bayard  Taylor,  addiessed 
the  following  exquisite  sonnet : 

A  WEDDING   SONNET. 
TO  L.  W.  AND  T.  B.  A. 

Sad  Autumn,  drop  thy  weedy  crown  forlorn, 

Put  off  thy  cloak  of  cloud,  thy  scarf  of  mist, 

And  dress  in  gauzy  gold  and  amethyst 
A  day  henign,  of  sunniest  influence  born, 
As  may  befit  a  Poet's  marriage-morn  I 

Give  buds  another  dream,  another  tryst 

To  loving  hearts,  and  print  on  lips  unkissed 
Bethrothal  kisses,  laughing  Spring  to  scorn  I 

Yet,  if  unfriendly  thou,  with  sullen  skies, 
Bleak  voices,  or  moaning  winds,  dost  menace  wrong, 

Here  thou  art  foiled ;  a  bridal  sun  shall  rise, 
And  bridal  emblems  unto  these  belong : 

Round  her  the  sunshine  of  her  beauty  lies, 
And  breathes  round  him  the  springtime  of  his  song. 

In  1875,  Mr.  Aldrich  and  his  wife,  in  company  with 
a  party  of  friends,  made  an  extensive  tour  abroad, 
visiting  the  principal  cities  and  also  many  of  the  out 
of  the  way  places  in  England,  Ireland,  Scotland, 
France,  Germany,  Italy,  Hungary,  Austria,  Bohemia, 
etc.  He  was  away  from  home  somewhat  more  than 
six  months,  traveling  almost  constantly.  A  rapid 
survey  of  the  ground  passed  over  by  the  party  is 
given  in  an  article,  entitled  "From  Ponkapog  to 


Thomas    JBailey  Aldrich.  281 

Pesth,"  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  Jan 
uary,  1877. 

Of  course  it  goes  almost  without  my  saying  it,  that 
Mr.  Aldrich's  foreign  experiences  have  furnished  him 
with  the  motifs  for  several  of  his  later  poems,  notably 
those  found  in  the  volume  "Flower  and  Thorn," 
printed  in  the  present  year.  This  volume,  together 
with  the  one  entitled  "Cloth  of  Gold,  and  other 
Poems,"  contains  all  the  poems  on  which  the  author 
places  any  value  or  cares  to  have  remembered.  The 
last  half  of  "The  Queen  of  Sheba"  — the  author's 
latest  fiction  —  also  deals  largely  with  Switzerland, 
and  involves  some  very  careful  studies  of  that  pictur 
esque  land. 

Mr.  Aldrich  has  several  times  been  honored  by 
republication  abroad.  A  complete  collection  of  his 
prose  writings  is  published  at  Leipzig ;  and  his  stories 
have  been  translated  and  republished  in  Paris.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  for  me  to  add  that  such  honor 
is  richly  deserved,  for  no  writer  in  American  literature 
can  write  more  vigorous  and  clearer  prose,  draw  such 
delicate  genre  pictures,  and  weave  more  pleasing  and 
fanciful  conceits.  His  poetry,  altogether  too  choice, 
it  would  seem,  to  win  the  admiration  of  a  multitude, 
has  in  it  an  oriental  depth  of  color  and  airiness  fox 
the  few  who  can  appreciate  the  truly  poetic. 


282  Poets'  Homes. 

In  respect  to  personal  appearance,  Mr.  Aldrich  is 
somewhat  above  the  medium  height,  of  slender  yet 
vigorous  form,  and  possesses  a  pale,  brown  complex 
ion  and  gently  wrought  features.  A  stranger  would 
easily,  and  perhaps  rightly,  judge  him  to  be  a  man  of 
the  world ;  for,  while  his  experience  of  life  has  been 
most  varied,  neither  care  nor  trouble  has  left  an  im 
press  upon  his  forehead,  or  stolen  from  his  age  the 
freshness  and  buoyancy  which  so  right  belong  tn 
youth. 

He  is   to-day    "Tom  Bailey"  still,   and  as  read; 
to  share  with  any  one  in  having  a  jolly  good  time. 

Mr.  Aldrich's  home,  properly  speaking,  is  in  Boa 
ton,  where  he  owns  a  residence  at  the  West  End, 
For  the  present,  however,  and  chiefly  on  account  ol 
the  health  of  his  two  boys,  —  twins  of  eight  years  of 
age, — he  lives  at  Ponkapog,  a  part  of  the  town  o.! 
Canton,  in  Massachusetts.  Although  a  very  charming 
place,  Ponkapog  was  never  noted  for  its  enterprise 
and  the  location  of  a  railroad  some  two  or  three  miles 
distant  has  left  it  very  much  in  the  condition  of 
Bailey's  Four  Corners,  described  by  Mr.  Aldrich  in 
his  story  of  "  Miss  Mehetable's  Son." 

The  house,  as  is  shown  by  the  illustration,  is  an 
old  fashioned,  two  story  house,  built  at  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century,  and  is  partially  screened  from 


POETS'    HOMES. 

PART  II. 


CONTENTS. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES        ...        .        .7 

WALT  WHITMAN 35 

JOAQUIN   MILLER       .        .        .        .        .        .60 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS       .        .         .         •     ?6 
WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT        .        .  •      .        .108 
NORA  PERRY      .        ...        .   .     .        •  131 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  .        .  .        .140 

PAUL  H.  HAYNE        ......  172 

J.  BOYLE  O'REILLY 196 

REV.  DR.  S.  F.  SMITH        .        .        ,        .        .215 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

AS  I  write,  my  eye  wanders  occasionally  from  the 
paper,  and  I  look  out  of  my  library  window 
towards  the  Washington  Elm,  beyond  which  I  see  a 
straight  path  across  the  Common  that  seems  to  end  al 
the  door  of  a  great  gambrel-roofed  house.  It  is  his 
toric  ground.  Under  that  aged  elm  tree  the  Father 
of  his  Country  first  drew  his  sword  as  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  army  that  won  freedom  for  the  United 
States,  and  on  that  Common  the  brave  soldiers  who 
composed  the  patriot  army  encamped  after  the  battle 
of  Lexington.  Of  one  of  these  scenes  Dr.  Holmes 
wrote  in  1875  : 

7 


8  Poets'  Homes. 

"  Just  on  this  very  blessed  spot, 

The  summer  leaves  below, 
Before  his  homespun  ranks  arrayed, 
In  green  New  England's  elm-bough  shade 
The  great  Virginian  drew  the  blade 

King  George  full  soon  should  know." 

Between  the  Common  and  the  house  with  the  gam- 
brel  roof  lies  the  road  on  which  the  red-coats  marched, 
all  confident  and  proud,  as  they  started  for  Lexington 
and  Concord  one  April  morning  in  1775,  and  down 
which,  all  humble  and  sore,  they  hurried,  pressed  bj 
the  militia-men,  as  they  retreated  towards  Boston  the 
same  afternoon,  after  their  astonishing  defeat. 

Many  a  tourist  has  stopped  under  the  venerable 
elm,  and  has  read  the  inscription  on  the  granite  mon 
ument  telling  the  simple  story  of  how  the  hero  hon 
ored  the  tree.  Many  a  visitor  gazes  at  the  ancient 
house,  too,  but  he  does  not  honor  it  because  it  was 
the  home  of  "  Mr  Hastings,"  or  the  quarters  of  the 
"  Committee  of  Safety,"  and  of  General  Ward,  a  hun 
dred  and  three  years  ago.  No,  he  does  homage  to 
the  spirit  of  patriotism  and  the  glory  of  war  on  this 
side  of  the  Common  ;  and  when  he  crosses  the  straight 
-path,  over  which  my  errant  eyes  so  often  wander,  he 
thinks  of  a  gentle  poet  who  drew  his  first  breath  be 
neath  that  hospitable  roof,  and  whose  first  years  were 
spent  in  the  midst  of  these  historic  scenes.  It  is  no 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  g 

longer  the  "  Hastings  House,"  but  the  birth-place  of 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Nearly  two  generations  ago,  in  the  year  1807,  the 
minister  of  the  "  First  Church  in  Cambridge  "  moved 
into  the  old  house  —  for  it  was  old  even  then.  He 
was  the  Rev.  Abiel  Holmes,  well  known  as  a  labori 
ous  and  faithful  pastor,  and  a  literary  man  of  promi 
nence  wherever  American  history  and  biography  were 
read.  He  was  accompanied  by  his  wife,  a  daughter 
of  the  Hon.  Oliver  Wendell,  an  eminent  citizen  of  the 
neighboring  town  of  Boston.  Cambridge  was  a  mere 
village  then,  and  the  common  a  waste,  unfenced 
stretch  of  sand  and  gravel  crossed  by  a  number  of 
unshaded  country  roads.  Around  it  there  were 
ranged  a  few  straggling  houses  which,  for  the  most 
part,  were  black  with  age,  and  guiltless  of  paint.  The 
south  windows  of  the  house,  which  now  became  the 
parsonage,  opened  upon  the  red  buildings  of  Harvard 
College,  then  few  in  number,  and  commanded  the 
view  over  the  Common  to  which  Dr.  Holmes  refers  in 
his  "  Metrical  Essay,"  though  but  one  church  stood 
there  until  1833 : 

"  Our  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when   the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire. 


io  Poets1  Homes. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green  ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between." 

The  "  lowly  tower  "  belongs  still  to  Christ  Church,  the 
history  of  which  runs  back  many  years  before  revolu 
tionary  times,  and  in  it  General  Washington  wor 
shipped  in  1775.  The  old  house  and  the  scenes 
about  it,  as  well  as  the  history  connected  with  them 
are  evidently  dear  to  Dr.  Holmes,  and  we  find 
them  frequently  alluded  to  in  his  verses,  as  well  as  in 
his  prose.  In  the  Atlantic  for  January,  1872,  he  de 
votes  several  pages  to  a  description  of  them,  in 
which  he  says,  "  It  was  a  great  happiness  to  have 
been  born  in  an  old  house  haunted  by  such  recol 
lections,  with  harmless  ghosts  walking  its  corridors, 
with  fields  of  waving  grass  and  trees  and  singing  birds, 
and  that  vast  territory  of  four  or  five  acres  around  il  to 
give  a  child  the  sense  that  he  was  born  to  a  noble 

principality It  seems  to  me 

I  should  hardly  be  quite  happy  if  I  could  not  recall 
at  will  the  Old  House  with  the  Long  Entry  and  the 
White  Chamber  ( where  I  wrote  the  first  verses  that 
made  me  known,  with  a  pencil,  stans pcde  in  uno* 

*  Standing   on  one  foot.      The   verses  were    those  entitled    "Old    Iron- 
«ide»  "  • 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  13 

jretty  nearly)  and  the  Little  Parlor,  and  the  study  and 
:he  old  books  in  uniforms  as  varied  as  those  of  the  An- 
:ient  and  Honorable  Artillery  Company  used  to  be,  if 
ny  memory  serves  me  right,  and  the  front  yard  with 
the  stars  of  Bethlehem  growing,  flowerless,  among  the 
jrass,  and  the  dear  faces  to  be  seen  no  more  there  or 
anywhere  on  this  earthly  place  of  farewells."  Again 
he  writes,  "  We  Americans  are  all .  cuckoos  —  we 
make  our  homes  in  the  nests  of  other  birds.  .  .  . 
We  lose  a  great  deal  in  living  where  there  are  so  few 
permanent  homes." 

But  I  was  not  talking  of  the  son,  nor  of  the  old  home 
but  of  the  poet's  father.  He  is  depicted  to  us  as  one 
of  the  loveliest  characters  —  full  of  learning,  but  never 
distressing  others  by  showing  how  learned  he  was,  "  a 
gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a  Christian  "  who  for  forty 
years  walked  these  classic  streets  and  taught  a  loving 
and  respecting  people  the  lessons  that  he  first  learned 
himself.  He  drew  children  to  him  by  his  kindly  man 
ner,  and  when  he  appeared  before  them  his  cane 
never  frightened  them,  for  they  knew  that  his  pockets 
were  filled  with  sweets  for  them,  and  his  mouth  with 
pleasant  words.  One  of  his  last  acts  was  to  give  a 
good  book  to  each  member  of  his  Sunday-school  as 
they  passed  before  the  pulpit  where  he  stood. 

Of  such  a  father  and  of  such  a  mother,  in  the  old 


14  Poets'  Homes. 

gambrel-roofecl  house,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was 
born,  on  the  twenty -ninth  of  August,  1809.*  Ii 
seems  to  me  that  he  fulfils  the  conditions  of  "  the  man 
of  family,"  as  he  is  described  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  November,  1859,  by  the  "  Autocrat  of 
the  Breakfast-table."  "  The  man  who  inherits  famil} 
traditions  and  the  cumulative  humanities  of  at  least 
four  or  five  generations.  Above  all  things,  as  a  child, 
he  should  have  tumbled  about  in  a  library."  Every 
surrounding  circumstance  gave  Dr.  Holmes  in  his 
youth  tendencies  towards  the  culture,  wisdom,  ge 
niality,  and  love  of  books,  which  he  has  since  ex 
hibited. 

He  went  to  school  in  Cambridge,  was  fitted  for 
college  at  the  Academy  founded  by  Mr.  Phillips 
in  Andover,  and  took  his  bachelor's  degree  at  Har 
vard  in  1829.  It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  make 
the  last  statement,  for  all  the  world  knows  that  he 
belongs  to  the  class  of  1829,  he  has  celebrated  it  so 

*I  am  very  sure  of  this  date,  for  I  have  seen  the  record  of  the  important  fact, 
that  was  made  by  the  father  at  the  time.  It  is  on  one  of  those  little  old  ''  Al 
manacks"  that  were  then  so  commonly  used  for  such  purposes.  Under  the 
date  of  August  29,  1809,  I  found  these  words  (  or  letters  )  :  "  Son  b."  When 
old  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  them  he  threw  a  little  sand  upon  the  ink,  and  there  it 
still  glistens  as  the  paper  is  turned  to  the  sunlight !  The  map  of  Europe  has 
been  made  over  since  that  day,  nations  have  risen  and  fallen,  the  United 
States  has  passed  through  three  wars,  and  yet  the,  !ittle  grain  of  sand,  the  em 
blem  of  thine?!  changeable  and  fleeting,  glistens  unchanged  upon  the  poet'i 
birth-record  1 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  15 

often  in  his  poems.  It  must  have  been  a  remarkable 
class  to  have  so  thoroughly  inspired  the  Doctor's 
muse.  He  likes  to  laugh  at  the  regularity  with  which, 
since  1851,  he  has  produced  poems  for  its  meetings. 
A  few  years  ago,  he  spoke  of  himself  thus ; 

"  It's  awful  to  think  of  —  how,  year  after  year, 

With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for  you  here  ; 

No  matter  who's  missing,  there  always  is  one 

To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun. 

'  Why  won't  he  stop  writing  ? '  Humanity  cries  : 

The  answer  is,  briefly,  '  He  can't  if  he  tries  ; 

He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather  so  long, 

That  the  goose-quill,  in  spite  of  him,  cackles  in  song.'  " 

After  graduation  Dr.  Holmes  studied  law  for  a  year 
at  the  Dane  Law  School,  of  Harvard  College.  Dur 
ing  this  time,  he  wrote  many  poems  for  the  college 
periodical,  called  "  The  Collegian,"  among  which 
were  "The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous,"  "Evening  — 
by  a  Tailor,"  and  "  The  Last  of  the  Dryads,"  the  last 
having  reference  to  a  general  and  severe  pruning  of 
the  trees  around  the  college.  At  the  year's  end,  how- 
evei,  he  left  this  study  for  that  of  medicine,  which  he 
followed  until  the  spring  of  1833.  He  then  went  to 
Europe  where  he  still  pursued  his  medical  studies, 
principally  in  Paris,  until  the  autumn  of  1835,  when 
he  returned.  In  1836  he  was  in  Cambridge,  pre 
pared  to  take  his  degree  as  Doctor  of  Medicine.  It 


1 6  Poets'  Homes, 

was  in  the  summer  of  that  year  that  he  delivered,  be 
fore  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society,  the  remarkable 
poem,  entitled  "  Poetry  :  A  Metrical  Essay,"  begin 
ning— 

"  Scenes  of  my  youth  1  awake  its  slumbering  fire  ! 
Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silent  lyre  I  " 

In  this  poem,  he  illustrates  pastoral  and  martial 
poetry,  by  his  lines  on  the  Cambridge  churchyard  to 
which  I  have  already  referred,  and  those  stirring  ones 
entitled  "Old  Ironsides,"  which  are  in  all  collections. 
The  government  had  prepared  to  break  up  the  old 
frigate  Constitution,  and  when  Dr.  Holmes  read  his 
verses,  into  which  he  put  all  possible  vigor,  he  ex 
cited  his  hearers  as  if  with  an  electric  shock.  I  wish 
that  I  might  have  heard  him  as  he  exclaimed  with  in 
dignant  and  vehement  sarcasm : 

"  Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  !  " 

These  stirring  verses  had  been  published  in  the 
Boston  Advertiser  several  years  before  (  I  have  told 
you  how  they  were  written  ) ,  and  from  its  columns  had 
been  copied  by  the  newspapers  all  over  the  country. 
They  had  been  circulated  on  hand-bills  at  Washing 
ton,  and  had  caused  the  preservation  of  the  old  vessel. 
This  is  one  of  the  marked  cases  in  which  poetry  has 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  17 

shown  its  power  to  stir  a  people's  heart,  and  to 
accomplish  something  that  prose  would  have  failed  to 
do. 

In  1839,  Dr.  Holmes  became  Professor  of  Anatomy 
and  Physiology  at  Dartmouth  College,  and  ever  since 
that  time  he  has  been  lecturing  to  medical  students 
upon  subjects  which  you  would  think  could  not  be 
made  interesting;  but  Dr.  Holmes  always  makes 
people  attentive  to  what  he  says,  and  I  have  been 
told  that  there  is  no  professor  whom  the  students  so 
r,nuch  like  to  listen  to.  When  you  read  his  works  you 
vnll  find  that  he  says  that  every  one  of  us  is  three  per 
sons,  and  I  think  that  if  the  statement  is  true  in  re- 
g;ard  to  ordinary  men  and  women  Dr.  Holmes  him- 
si;lf  is,  at  least,  half  a  dozen  persons.  He  lectures 
si)  well  on  Anatomy  that  his  students  never  suspect 
him  to  be  a  poet,  and  he  writes  verses  so  well  that 
most  people  do  not  suspect  him  of  being  an  authority 
among  scientific  men.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that, 
though  he  illustrates  his  medical  lectures  by  quota 
tions  of  the  most  appropriate  and  interesting  sort 
from  a  wonderful  variety  of  authors,  he  has  never 
been  known  to  refer  to  his  own  writings  in  that  way. 
I  will  say  here  all  that  I  wish  to  about  his  medical 
career. 

He  did  not  stay  long  so  far  away  from  Cambridge 


1 8  Poets'  Homes. 

as  Dartmouth  is,  and  in  1840  we  find  him  married 
and  established  as  a  popular  physician  in  Boston.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  began  again  to  give  instruc 
tion  to  young  physicians  ;  for  he  has  never  been  able 
to  shut  up  his  knowledge  and  keep  it  for  his  own  use, 
and  has  always  been  a  teacher  as  well  as  a  learner, 
as  most  great  and  good  men  have  been. 

He  wrote  about  diseases  and  the  causes  of  them, 
and  upset  some  of  the  notions  that  doctors  had  al 
ways  thought  ought  to  be  respected.  There  is  a  bad 
fever  with  a  long  name,  that  certain  leading  author 
ities  thought  could  not  be  "  taken  "  by  touching  a  per 
son  who  has  it,  but  Dr.  Holmes  proved  that  it  could 
be,  and  intelligent  doctors  agree  with  him  now.  In 
1837,  he  published  a  volume  containing  three  Prize  Es 
says  on  Intermittent  Fever,  Neuralgia,  and  the  need  of 
Direct  Exploration  in  Medical  Practice.  Since  then, 
he  has  written  other  very  important  essays  of  this 
kind,  one  of  which  is  on  Homoeopathy  and  Kindred 
Delusions.  Besides  this,  he  has  argued  against  giv 
ing  people  as  much  medicine  as  doctors  used  to  give 
when  he  was  taught  to  practice,  and  for  this  we  all 
owe  him  a  debt. 

I  must  not  go  on  with  this  subject  too  long,  for  you 
wish  to  know  about  Dr.  Holmes  the  poet,  and  not  the 
physician.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  grew  so  fa- 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  jg 

mous  and  learned  in  this  profession  that  when  the 
celebrated  Dr.  Warren  gave  up  his  professorship  at 
Harvard,  Dr.  Holmes  was  chosen  to  take  his  place  as 
professor  of  Anatomy.  That  was  in  1847,  and  he  has 
been  Professor  Holmes  ever  since,  and  is  now  teach 
ing  the  sons  of  some  of  those  to  whom,  years  ago,  he 
gave  their  first  lesson  in  Anatomy.  Yet,  if  you  look  at 
his  portrait,  taken  only  a  few  weeks  ago,  you  will 
say  that  he  is  not  an  old  man  himself ! 

Having  arrived  at  the  point  where  Dr.  Holmes  was 
married  and  established  for  life,  I  will  say  a  little 
more  about  the  homes  he  has  had.  They  are  three. 
Of  the  first  one  I  have  told  you  and  have  shown  you 
a  picture.  When  I  was  a  small  boy,  a  square  old- 
fashioned  mansion  used  to  be  pointed  out  to  me  as 
the  residence  of  a  poet,  whom  I  knew  as  having  writ 
ten  a  poem  that  I  thought  "  splendid,"  entitled  "The 
Height  of  the  Ridiculous."  It  began  thus  : 

"  I  wrote  some  lines,  once  on  a  time, 

In  wondrous  merry  mood, 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  good. 
*  They  were  so  queer,  so  very  quev, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die  ; 
Albeit,  in  a  general  way, 

A  sober  man  an;  t.' 

Do  you  not  remember  them  ? 


zo  Poets'  Homes. 

The  house  that  I  speak  of  stood  upon  an  elevation 
overlooking  a  meadow  bordering  the  Housatonic 
river  in  the  town  of  Pittsfield.  Dr.  Holmes's  great 
grandfather,  Jacob  Wendell,  had  had  a  little  farm 
there  of  twenty-four  thousand  acres,  and  this  house 
was  surrounded  by  what  remained  of  them  unsold. 
(  Let  me  see :  How  many  acres  make  a  square  mile  ? ) 
I  have  told  you  how  much  Dr.  Holmes  is  attached 
to  the  homes  that  he  has  had.  This  was  no  excep 
tion.  He  lived  here  a  part  of  the  year  only,  from 
1849  to  1856.  *  In  a  poem  recited  at  Pittsfield  in 
those  days  he  says  : 

"  Poor  drudge  of  the  city  !  how  happy  he  feels, 

With  the  burrs  on  his  legs  and  the  grass  at  his  heels  ! 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito,  and  brushes  a  tear  ; 

The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and  shoots, 

He  heaves  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and  his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard  by  the  old  church, 

The  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of  birch ; 

O,  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks  ; 

Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had  so  many  "  big  licks." 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he  slumps  ; 

His  boots  fill  with  water  as  if  they  were  pumps, 

Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed, 

With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his  head." 

*  In  the  tenth  paper  of  the  "Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,"  Dr.  Holmes 
refers  to  this  place  thus :  — "  In  that  home  where  seven  blessed  summers 
were  passed,  which  stand  in  memory  like  the  seven  golden  candlesticks  in 
the  beautiful  vision  of  the  holy  dreamer.'' 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  21 

My  readers  out  West  will  know  what  a  "  lick  "  is, 
and  all  of  them  will  see  that  Dr.  Holmes  writes  of 
the  tree  by  the  old  school-house  as  feelingly  as  he 
could  have  done  if  his  young  ideas  had  been  taught 
to  shoot  in  Pittsfield  instead  of  Cambridge. 

The  third  home  is  the  elegant  one  on  Beacon  Street 
in  Boston,  of  the  library  of  which  I  give  you  as  good 
a  picture  as  a  photographer  could  make.  It  is  a 
charming  room,  with  a  generous  bay-window  looking 
over  the  broad  river  Charles,  and  commanding  an 
extensive  view  of  Cambridge.  Even  in  the  picture, 
you  can  recognize  the  lofty  tower  of  Memorial  Hall., 
which  is  but  a  few  steps  from  the  good  Doctor's  first 
home.  The  ancient  Hebrew  always  had  a  window 
open  towards  Jeiusalem,  the  city  about  which  his. 
most  cherished  hopes  and  memories  clustered,  and 
this  window  gives  its  owner  the  pleasure  of  looking; 
straight  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  thus  of  fresh 
ening  all  the  happy  memories  of  a  successful  life. 

I  cannot  show  you  two  other  windows  that  you 
would  see  if  you  could  enter  this  library.  They  are 
circular,  and  shed  the  light  of  day  upon  the  alcoves 
between  the  book-cases,  and  also  upon  the  apparatus 
connected  with  a  microscope  which  stands  ready  for 
use  near  one  of  them. 

[  wish  you  could   all   stand  with   me   beside   the 


22  Poets'  Homes. 

writing-table  in  the  center  of  this  room.  You  would 
see  your  face  reflected  in  a  large  mirror  over  the 
cheerful  open  fire  that  burns  on  the  hearth,  and  you 
would  notice  that  the  walls  on  all  sides,  except  one 
through  which  you  entered,  are  lined  with  books. 
Beside  the  broad  doors  you  would  see  two  portraits 
that  would  attract  your  attention  and  keep  it.'  The 
one,  of  a  lady  (  which  once  had  a  rent  in  the  canvas  ), 
represents  "  Dorothy  Q.,"  — 

"  Grandmother's  mother,  — her  age,  I  guess, 

Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less  ; 

Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air, 

Smooth,  square  forehead,  and  up-rolled  hair, 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed, 

Taper  fingers  anfl  slender  wrist, 

Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade, — 

So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving,  and  broods  serene." 

This  little  maiden  was  a  daughter  of  Judge  Edmund 
Quincy  of  Boston,  and  married  Edward  Jackson. 
She  was  an  aunt  of  a  second  Dorothy  Quincy,  after 
ward  Mrs.  John  Hancock,  whose  husband  signed  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  in  such  a  dashing  way. 
The  other  portrait  is  a  speaking  one,  by  Copley,  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  Cooper,  a  celebrated  divine  of  Revo 
lutionary  times,  who  was  a  friend  of  Benjamin  Frank 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  23 

lin,  and  preached  in  the  Brattle  Street  Church  to  Dr. 
Holmes'  ancestors.  This  home  is  very  elegant,  and 
Dr,  Holmes  evidently  enjoys  it  very  much.  Should 
you  not  like  to  see  him  writing  at  that  table  ?  I  can 
imagine  him  engaged  in  that  way.  I  suppose  that 
he  has  just  come  in  from  a  lecture  where  he  has  been 
delighting  the  medical  students  with  his  lucid  exposi 
tion  of  some  anatomical  subject.  He  warms  his  feet 
before  the  fire  awhile,  and  then  remembers  that  some 
editor  has  been  urging  him  for  a  poem.  His  eyes 
glance  out  at  the  window,  he  sees  the  Memorial  Tower ; 
he  remembers  the  old  parsonage  below  it,  his  mind 
travels  over  time  as  his  eye  has  over  space,  and  he 
peoples  the  house  and  the  neighborhood  with  the 
men,  women  and  children  of  many  long  years  ago. 
He  hears  the  notes  of  a  musical  instrument,  that  came 
out  of  the  windows  looking  towards  the  church  of 
those  days,  and  his  imagination  is  fixed  in  words, 
thus: 

"  In  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you  may  have  seen, 
With   the  gambrel  roof,  and  the  gable  looking  westward    to 

the  green, 

At  the  side  towards  the  sunset,  with  the  window  on  its  right, 
Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dreaming  of  to-night  I 
Ah,  me  !  how  I  remember  the  evening  when  it  came  1 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group  of  cheeks  in  flame  I 
When  the  wondrous    box  was  opened  that  had  come  from 
over  seas. 


24  Poets'  Homes. 

With  its  smell  of  mastic  varnish  and  its  flash  of  ivory  keys. 
Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the  restlessness  of  joy, 
For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and  the  sister  crowd  the  boy, 
Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave,  paternal  way, 
But  the  mother  hushed  the  tumult  with  the  words,  "Now,  Mary, 
play." 

Does  this  not  show  that  our  poet  has  never  forgot 
ten  that  home,  nor  the  great  excitement  caused  in 
the  family  circle  by  the  arrival  of  the  imported  Clem 
enti  piano,  which  was  such  a  wonder  in  those  days . 
Is  there  not  something  delightfully  cordial  in  the 
introduction  that  this  gives  us  to  the  family  circle  —  to 
father  and  mother,  brother  and  sisters,  and  even  to  his 
little  "  Catherine,"  who  ran  in  to  listen  to  the  won 
drous  music,  as  you  will  learn  if  you  read  the  othei 
verses  of  the  "  Opening  of  the  Piano  "  ? 

Suppose,  however,  that  Dr.  Holmes,  instead  of 
looking  so  far  for  his  subject,  had  cast  his  eyes  down 
upon  the  Charles.  Then  he  might  have  written  thus 
as  he  did  last  winter  : 

"  Through  my  north  window,   in  the  wintry  weather, — 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore, — 
I  watch  the  seafowl  as  they  flock  together, 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 
How  often,  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting  with  the  tide, 
I  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis, 

And  float,  a  sea  fowl,  at  a  sea  fowl's  side. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  25 

A  voice  recalls  me. — From  my  window  turning, 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 
No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings  discerning,  — 

In  fact,  with  nothing  birdlike  but  my  quill." 


This  poem  was  in  the  Atlantic  for  January  last, 
[t  contains  a  touch  that  is  very  characteristic  of 
one  so  kindly  in  his  feelings  as  Dr.  Holmes.  As  he  calls 
our  attention  to  the  fowl  he  loves  to  see  on  the  water, 
he  takes  advantage  of  a  moment  when  one  of  tho 
ducks  is  diving,  to  tell  us  that  it  is  not  valuable  to  thu 
hunter  —  a  remark  which  of  course  he  could  not  makt; 
in  the  fowl's  presence  ! 

By  knowing  so  much  as  we  have  now  learned  o  5 
the  homes  of  Dr.  Holmes,  we  get  an  introduction  to 
his  mind  and  heart,  and  understand  something  o:l 
how  his  poems  have  grown  out  of  his  life  and  have 
been  moulded  by  his  surroundings.  It  is  not  neces 
sary  for  us  to  wander  into  the  other  apartments  of  his 
present  house,  though  he  will  gladly  show  us  his 
drawing-room,  just  across  the  hall  from  the  library, 
and  let  us  feast  our  eyes  upon  some  of  the  works  of 
art  there.  He  will  call  our  attention  especially  to 
some  remarkable  reproductions  of  paintings  of  the  old 
masters,  made  by  a  new  process.  Here  I  will  say, 
by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  we  owe  to  the  ingenuity  of 
our  poet  the  stereoscope  in  its  present  available  shape, 


26  Poets'  Homes. 

which  he  gave  to  the  public  without  burdening  it  with 
the  additional  cost  which  it  would  have  had  if  it  had 
been  patented.  It  is  one  of  the  few  inventions  of 
value  that  are  not  patented. 

Thus  far  we  have  studied  Dr.  Holmes  as  a  success 
ful  professional  student,  writer  and  poet.  Twenty- 
five  years  ago  he  appeared  in  a  new  character;  He 
began  to  lecture  on  contemporary  poets,  and  showed 
that  he  was  a  most  acute  literary  critic.  He  knew 
human  nature  and  was  able  to  manage  audiences  of  a 
mixed  kind  as  well  as  those  composed  of  students. 
Twenty  years  ago  last  autumn  a  new  magazine  was 
started  in  Boston.  It  was  to  be  of  the  very  highest 
literary  character,  and  the  poet  James  Russell  Lowell, 
now  our  minister  at  Madrid,  was  called  to  its  edito 
rial  chair.  He  said  that  he  would  not  accept  unless 
his  friend  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  would  agree  to  be 
one  of  the  contributors.  Dr.  Holmes  was  reluctant  to 
promise.  He  remembered  that  he  had  been  writing 
for  thirty  years,  and  felt  that  a  new  generation  of  read 
ers  as  well  as  writers  had  grown  up,  and  thought  that 
he  ought  to  be  allowed  to  rest.  Now,  as  he  looks 
back,  he  sees  that  he  was  mistaken,  and  believes  that 
the  new  magazine  came  for  his  fruit  just  as  it  was  ripe 
for  the  gathering.  "  It  seems  very  strange  to  me," 
he  says  with  his  quaint  frankness,  "  as  I  look  back  and 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  29 

see  how  everything  was  arranged  for  me,  as  if  I  had 
been  waited  for  as  patiently  as  Kepler  said  he  was  , 
but  so  the  least  sometimes  seem  to  be  cared  for  as 
anxiously  as  the  greatest  —  are  not  two  sparrows  sold 
for  a  farthing,  and  one  of  them  shall  not  fall  ?  If  I 
had  been  the  sparrow  that  fell  in  the  early  part  of 
1853,  the  world  might  have  lost  very  little,  but  I 
should  have  carried  a  few  chirps  with  me  that  I  had 
rather  have  left  behind  me." 

Such  was  Dr.  Holmes's  modest  opinion  of  himself 
in  1857.  Mr.  Lowell  thought  otherwise,  and  so  did 
the  public.  The  magazine  wanted  a  name,  and  Dr. 
Holmes  called  it  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly  Magazine." 
As  he  sat  down  to  write  for  the  first  number,  he  re 
membered  that,  just  twenty-five  years  before,  he  had 
published  two  articles  entitled  "  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-Table,"  and  he  says  that  the  recollections 
of  these  crude  products  of  his  uncombed  literary  boy 
hood  suggested  the  thought  that  it  would  be  a  curious 
experiment  to  shake  the  same  bough  again  and  see  if 
the  ripe  fruit  were  better  or  worse  than  the  early 
wind-falls.  So  he  began  his  first  article  thus :  "  I 
was  just  going  to  say,  when  I  was  interrupted,  —  " 
and  did  not  explain  for  a  year  how  long  the  interrup 
tion  had  lasted. 

His  papers  took  the  reading  public  by  storm  and 


30  Poets'  Homes. 

successfully  established  the  Atlantic.  It  was  acknowl 
edged  that  Dr.  Holmes  was  the  best  living  magazine 
writer.  For  a  year  he  sat  at  the  breakfast-table  as 
the  Autocrat,  and  then  he  began  a  series  of  papers 
entitled,  "  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast-Table." 
These  were  followed  by  "The  Professor's  Story," 
afterwards  published  as  "  Elsie  Venner  ;  a  Romance 
of  Destiny."  In  1867,  "  The  Guardian  Angel  "  was 
the  great  attraction  of  the  magazine,  and  in  1872,  the 
"  Autocrat "  series  was  closed  with  a  number  of  arti 
cles  entitled,  "The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table." 
These  ended  with  a  poetical  epilogue,  in  which  the 
author  represents  a  buyer  in  1972  purchasing  the 
whole  of  them  at  a  book-store  for  "  one  dime  !  " 

This  series  of  prose  works  is  overflowing  with  wit 
and  wisdom,  and  established  the  reputation  of  Dr. 
Holmes  as  a  writer  of  prose,  as  high  as  it  had  before 
stood  as  a  poet.  It  constituted,  however,  but  a  part 
of  his  productions  for  the  period.  He  wrote  con 
stantly  upon  topics  that  were  uppermost  in  the  peo 
ple's  thoughts ;  and  especially  was  he  in  demand 
whenever  on  an  occasion  of  extraordinary  importance 
a  poem  was  required.  He  became  the  poet-laureate 
of  Boston,  and  wrote,  himself,  — 

"  Here's  the  cousin  of  a  king, — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing  ? 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  33 

Here's  the  first-born  of  a  queen  ; 
Here's  a  slant-eyed  Mandarin. 
Would  I  polish  off  Japan  ? 
Would  I  greet  this  famous  man, 
Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  ?  — 
Figaro  $i  and  Figaro  li ! 
Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ? — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 
(Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered,  —  yielded, —  did  my  best." 


Thus  he  has  gratified  his  friends  and  the  public  from 
time  to  time,  ever  since  the  first  of  February,  1845, 
when  he  wrote  a  song  for  the  dinner  given  to  Charles 
Dickens  by  the  young  men  of  Boston,  at  which  time, 
weaving  together  the  memory  of  the  greatest  drama 
tist  and  the  rising  story-teller,  he  spoke  of  the  "  dewy 
blossoms  "  that  wave  in  the  "  glorious  island  of  the 
sea," 

"Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 
And  Nelly's  nameless  grave." 

Here,  I  must  leave  my  subject  incomplete,  for  I  am 
not  a  prophet,  and  a  prophet  only  can  tell  what  new 
laurels  Dr.  Holmes  will  yet  win.  But  if  he  should 
leave  us  now,  he  would  always  be  remembered  as  one 
who,  in  many  ways,  had  distinguished  himself  above 
his  fellows.  As  a  professional  man,  he  has  been 
thorough  and  successful ;  as  a  man  of  letters,  versa- 


34  Poets'  Homes. 

tile,  brilliant,  of  the  highest  culture ;  as  a  citizen,  pa 
triotic  ;  as  a  man,  an  exemplification  of  elegance  of 
manner  and  kindliness  of  heart.  May  he  live  many 
years,  and  teach  others  by  his  example  to  practice 
his  virtues  ! 

Though  /  am  not  a  prophet,  there  was  one  living 
in  England  just  three  hundred  years  ago,  who,  it  al 
most  seems  to  me,  had  Dr.  Holmes  in  mind  when 
he  wrote  the  following  lines,  with  which  I  will  close  : 

"  A  merrier  man. 

Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal  • 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit  ; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue,  ( conceit's  expositor ) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words 
That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales, 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished, 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse. 

"  May  he  live 

Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years. 
Ever  beloved  and  loving  may  his  rule  be  I 
And  when  old  Time  shall  lead  him  to  his  er.d 
Gocdness  and  he  fill  up  one  monuirert ' ' 


WALT  WHITMAN. 

DURING  the  summer  heats  of  the  Centennial 
year,  a  little  child  less  than  a  year  old  fell  ill 
and  died  in  its  house,  in  Camden,  New  Jersey.  The 
funeral  was  different  from  most  funerals  —  no  ser 
mons,  no  singing,  no  ceremony.  In  the  middle  of 
the  room  the  dead  lay  in  a  white  coffin  made  fragrant 
with  a  profusion  of  fresh  geranium  leaves  and  tube 
roses.  For  over  an  hour,  the  little  children  from  the 
neighborhood  kept  coming  in  silently,  until  the  room 
was  nearly  filled.  Some  were  not  tall  enough  to  see 
the  face  of  the  dead  baby,  and  had  to  be  lifted  up  to 
look.  Near  the  head  of  the  coffin,  in  a  large  chair, 
sat  an  old  man,  with  snow-white  hair  and  beard. 
The  children  pressed  about  him,  one  at  each  side  of 
him  encircled  in  his  arms,  while  a  beautiful  little  girl 

35 


36  Poets'  Homes. 

was  seated  in  his  lap.  After  gazing  wonderingly  and 
intently  at  the  scene  about  her,  she  looked  up  in 
the  paternal  face  bending  over  her,  as  if  to  ask  the 
meaning  of  Death.  The  old  man  understood  the 
child's  thought,  and  said : 

"You  don't  know  what  it  is,  do  you,  my  dear?" 
then  added,  " neither  do  we" 

The  dead  baby  was  the  nephew  and  namesake  of 
the  poet,  Walt  Whitman,  the  old  man  who  sat  in  the 
great  chair  with  little  children  gathered  about  him. 
So  his  being  a  special  lover  of  children,  understand 
ing,  and  sympathizing  with  them,  perhaps,  as  only  a 
poet  may,  and  nursing,  cheering  and  helping  them 
when  sick,  as  perhaps  poets  rarely  do,  or  can,  must 
add  a  peculiar  fitness  and  charm  to  a  sketch  of  him, 
especially  for  young  readers. 

To  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  his  life,  will  take  us 
into  a  farm  house  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  about 
thirty  miles  from  New  York  city,  where  the  poet  was 
born,  May  31,  1819.  His  father  was  of  English 
descent,  his  ancestors  being  among  the  first  English 
emigrants  that  settled  on  Long  Island  four  or  five 
generations  ago.  The  Whitmans  were  farmers,  both 
the  men  and  women  laboring  with  their  own  hands, 
A  famous  friend  of  the  poet,  thus  describes  his  pater 
nal  home: 


Walt  Whitman.  37 

"The  Whitmans  lived  in  a  long  story-and-a-ha'f 
house,  hugely  timbered,  which  is  still  standing.  A 
great  smoke-canopied  kitchen,  with  vast  hearth  and 
chimney,  formed  one  end  of  the  house.  The  existence 
of  slavery  in  New  York  at  that  time,  and  the  posses 
sion  by  the  family  of  some  twelve  or  fifteen  slaves, 
house  and  field  servants,  gave  things  quite  a  patri 
archal  look.  The  very  young  darkies  could  be  seen 
a  swarm  of  them,  toward  sundown,  in  this  kitchen 
squatted  in  a  circle  on  the  floor,  eating  their  suppei 
of  pudding  and  milk.  In  the  house,  and  in  food  and 
furniture,  all  was  rude,  but  substantial.  No  carpets 
nor  stoves  were  known,  and  no  coffee,  and  tea  or 
sugar  only  for  the  women.  Rousing  woodfires  gavo 
both  warmth  and  light  on  winter  nights.  Pork,  poul 
try,  beef,  and  all  the  ordinary  grains  and  vegetables 
were  plentiful.  Cider  was  the  men's  common  drink 
and  used  at  meals.  The  clothes  were  mainly  home 
spun.  Journeys  were  made  by  both  men  and  women 
on  horseback.  Books  were  scarce.  The  annual 
copy  of  the  Almanac  was  a  treat,  and  was  pored  over 
through  the  long  winter  evenings." 

It  was  in  this  home  the  poet's  father,  Walter  Whit 
man,  was  born.  He  was  a  large,  quiet,  serious  man, 
very  kind  to  children  and  animals.  He  was  a  good 
citizen,  parent  and  neighbor.  The  poet's  mother, 


38  Poefs  Homes. 

Lousia  Van  Velsor,  was  of  Dutch  descent,  her  ances 
tors,  a  race  of  sea  folks  and  mariners,  being  genuine 
Hollanders.  The  Van  Velsors  were  all  passionately 
fond  of  horses,  and  Louisa,  when  a  girl,  was  a  daring 
and  spirited  rider.  As  a  woman,  she  was  healthy  and 
strong,  possessed  of  a  kind  and  generous  heart,  and 
good  sense ;  she  was  cheerful  and  equable  in  temper, 
qualities  which  the  rearing  of  her  large  family  of  boys 
and  girls  tested  and  developed  to  an  unusual  degree. 
Her  son,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  who  was  her 
second  child,  always  speaks  of  her  as  the  "dear,  dear, 
mother."  At  the  time  of  her  death  in  1873,  and  that 
of  his  sister  Martha,  which  occurred  at  about  the 
same  time,  he  says : 

"They  were  the  two  best  and  sweetest  women  I 
have  ever  seen  or  known,  or  ever  expect  to  see." 

It  was  fortunate  that  in  his  earlier  life  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  such  women,  for  they  became 
to  him  the  type  and  model  of  all  womanhood.  "  It  is 
the  character  of  the  mother"  I  have  heard  of  him 
say,  "that  stamps  that  of  the  child." 

But  the  boy's  life  on  the  farm,  from  the  high  places 
of  which  he  could  see  the  ocean,  and  hear  the  roar  of 
the  surf  in  storms,  was  of  short  duration.  While  he 
was  still  in  frocks,  his  parents  moved  to  Brooklyn, 
which  was  then  far  from  being  the  great  city  it  now 


Walt  Whitman.  39 

is.  Here  his  father  engaged  in  house- building,  while 
the  young  Walt  went  to  public  school,  going  every 
summer  to  visit  the  old  home  at  West  Hills.  Of  the 
events  of  his  childhood,  the  poet  recalls  one  of  pleas 
ant  interest.  General  Lafayette  was  then  on  a  visit 
to  this  country  in  1825,  and  went  to  Brooklyn, 
riding  through  the  town  in  state,  with  the  people 
lining  the  street,  cheering,  and  waving  hats  and  hand 
kerchiefs.  Even  the  children  of  the  public  schools 
were  given  a  holiday  in  which  to  add  to  his  welcome. 
As  the  general  rode  along,  he  was  induced  to  stop  on 
his  way,  and  lay  the  corner  stone  for  a  building  that 
was  to  contain  a  free  public  library  for  young  people. 
There  the  children  came  thronging,  while  some  of 
she  gentlemen  present  were  kind  enough  to  lift  the 
smaller  ones  to  safe  and  convenient  places  for  seeing 
the  ceremony.  Among  these  helpers  of  the  little 
ones,  was  Lafayette,  who  took  up  the  five-year-old 
Walt  Whitman,  kissed  and  embraced  the  child  and 
then  set  him  down  in  a  good  and  safe  place. 

When  the  boy  had  reached  the  age  of  thirteen,  he 
went  to  work  in  a  printing  office,  learning  to  set  type. 
For  three  years  following,  he  continued  to  set  type,  to 
read  and  study,  and  then,  when  scarcely  seventeen 
years  old,  he  began  to  teach  school  on  the  Island,  in 
the  counties  of  Queens  and  Suffolk,  and  "boarded 


40  Poets'  Homes. 

round."  During  this  time  he  made  his  first  essay  as 
a  writer,  sending  a  sketch,  or  story,  to  the  then 
famous  monthly,  the  "Democratic  Review."  His 
article  was  commended,  printed,  copied  and  quoted, 
—  a  success  brilliant  enough  to  quite  turn  the  head 
of  a  youthful  aspirant.  Other  contributions  followed, 
with  an  occasional  "shy"  at  poetry,  until  he  finally 
left  off  "  boarding  round "  and  went  to  New  York, 
beginning  work  there  as  a  printer  and  writer.  His 
talent  for  writing  was  clever,  and  for  a  time  he  wrote 
reports,  editorials,  paragraphs,  and  the  like.  Occa 
sionally  he  attended  political  meetings,  and  made 
speeches.  How  good  an  orator  he  was,  I  am  unable 
to  say.  To  be  brief,  during  the  period  from  1837  to 
1848,  he  seemed  to  have  led  a  happy,  careless,  Bohe- 
mianish  sort  of  life,  making  the  acquaintance  of  hu 
man  existence  under  a  multitude  of  phases,  and 
becoming  especially  familiar  with  the  life  of  the 
lower  classes  of  people,  whose  society  pleased  him 
better  than  did  that  of  the  rich  and  the  learned.  All 
this  broadened  and  deepened  his  sympathies,  and 
was  a  part  of  that  "long  foreground"  in  his  career 
which  preceded  his  fame  as  a  poet. 

When  about  thirty  years  of  age,  to  use  his  'own 
words,  he  "went  off  on  a  leisurely  journey  and  work 
ing  expedition,  ( my  brother  Jeff  with  me  )  through 


Walt    Whitman.  41 

all  the  Middle  States  and  down  the  Ohio  and  Missis 
sippi  rivers.  Lived  a  while  in  New  Orleans  and 
worked  there.  After  a  time  plodded  back  northward, 
up  the  Mississippi,  the  Missouri,  etc.,  and  around  to, 
and  by  way  of,  the  great  lakes,  Michigan,  Huron  and 
Erie,  to  Niagara  Falls  and  Lower  Canada,  —  finally 
returning  through  Central  New  York  and  down  the 
Hudson."  In  1851  he  began  the  publication  of  a 
daily  and  weekly  newspaper  in  Brooklyn  ;  then  sold 
that  out,  and  occupied  himself  in  house  building, 
which  it  will  be  remembered  was  his  father's  voca 
tion.  He  continued  in  this  business  until  1855,  when 
his  father  died,  a  loss  he  keenly  felt,  for  his  love  of 
kindred  is  strongly  and  deeply  rooted.  About  this 
time  he  began,  after  a  great  deal  of  writing  and  rewrit 
ing,  to  put  his  poems,  which  then  consisted  of  one 
foundation  piece,  so  to  speak,  and  which  he  oddly 
enough  named  for  himself,  and  ten  or  a  dozen  shorter 
pieces,  to  pi  ess.  He  says  of  this  work,  that  he  had 
great  trouble  in  leaving  out  the  stock  "poetical" 
touches,  but  finally  did.  He  was  at  this  time  at  the 
meridian  of  life,  thirty-five  years  old. 

These  poems,  when  printed  and  bound,  formed  a 
thin  quarto  volume  which  was  labeled,  in  large  let 
ters,  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  In  the  frontispiece  was  a 
neatly  engraved  half  length  portrait  of  a  youngish 


42  Poets'  Homes. 

man,  wearing  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  rather  jauntily 
adjusted,  a  plain  shirt  with  wide  collar  left  open  at 
the  throat,  one  arm  a-kimbo,  and  the  hand  of  the 
other  stuffed  in  his  pantaloon  pocket.  The  face 
under  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  was,  however,  a  study, 
and  one  difficult  to  describe.  The  mouth  seemed  to 
say  one  thing  and  the  eyes  another.  This  was  a  por 
trait  of  the  author  at  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  it 
may  interest  possessors  of  copies  to  know  that  this 
"  shirt-sleeve  picture  "  was  daguerreotyped  from  life 
one  hot  day  in  August,  by  Gabriel  Harrison  of  Brook 
lyn,  afterwards  drawn  on  steel  by  McRae,  and  was  a 
very  faithful  and  characteristic  likeness  at  the  time. 
The  large  head  that  follows,  and  which  looks  like 
a  study  from  the  old  masters,  so  grand  and  powerful 
it  is,  was  photographed  from  life  in  Washington,  in 
1872,  by  Geo.  C.  Potter  and  drawn  on  wood  by  Lin- 
ton.  A  distance  of  but  seventeen  years  separates  the 
two  portraits.  One  might  readily  think  that  half  a 
century  had  elapsed.  But  the  war  lay  between,  and 
that  was  long — long,  not  to  be  measured  by  years. 

To  come  back  to  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  it  was  issued 
without  the  author's  name,  the  printing  was  poorly 
done,  the  publisher  was  unknown  to  fame,  the  style 
of  the  poems  was  different  from  anything  hitherto 
known  under  the  sun,  and  altogether  the  prospect  of 


Walt    Whitman. 


45 


the  "  Leaves "  was  a  withering  one.  A  few  copies 
were  d  eposited  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn  for  sale 
but  weeks  elapsed  and  none  were  sold.  But  very 
little  notice  was  taken  of  the  book  by  reviewers,  who 
either  thought  it  beneath  their  notice,  or  found  it  too 
far  beyond  their  comprehension  to  attempt  a  criticism 
of  it,  or  felt  unwilling  to  hazard  a  critic's  reputation  by 
actually  classifying  it  as  literary  "  fish,  flesh  or  fowl." 

Suddenly,  however,  from  an  unexpected  quarter 
came  a  powerful  voice  to  its  rescue.  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  spoke,  and  his  words  were  a  "magnificent 
eulogium  "  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  Not  even  this, 
however,  effected  a  sale  for  that  first  edition.  A  sec 
ond,  somewhat  enlarged,  issued  in  New  York,  shared 
the  same  fate.  A  third,  printed  in  Boston,  in  1860, 
in  a  very  elegant  manner,  and  still  further  enlarged, 
had  somewhat  better  luck.  In  the  financial  crash 
that  preceded  and  followed  the  outbreak  of  war,  the 
publishers  failed  —  a  few  hundred  copies  of  the  book 
had  been  sold  —  everything  then  was  forgotten  but 
the  weal  and  woe  of  the  country,  and  the  poet  went 
off  (i86i-'6s)  to  the  war. 

The  life  of  Walt  Whitman,  during  those  dreadful 
years  which  ensued,  and  which  he  spent  in  unpaid 
service  in  hospital  and  camp  among  the  dead,  dy 
ing,  wounded  and  sick,  no  one  can  truly  depict.  The 


46  Poets'   Homes. 

poet  himself,  in  his  "  Memoranda  of  the  War '  written 
on  the  spot,  has  best  done  it,  in  a  style,  which  ior 
simplicity  and  forgetfulness  of  self,  is  yet  the  most 
thrilling  and  powerfully  descriptive  record  of  those 
sad  events,  that  has  as  yet  appeared,  or  is  likely  to 
appear.  He  seems  to  have  been  all  things  to  all 
men  —  as  need  demanded.  Of  powerful  physique, 
magnetic,  sympathetic,  human  to  his  heart's  core,  he 
goes  among  the  wounded  dispensing  food,  cordials, 
writing  letters  for  them,  reading  to  them,  praying  with 
them  if  they  wish  it,  speaking  words  of  cheer,  infus 
ing  new  life  in  their  veins  from  his  own  abundance  of 
life,  bearing  always  about  him  a  breeziness  of  health, 
freshness,  and  energy,  holding  an  emaciated  hand 
for  hours,  may  be  in  silence,  kissing  a  poor  dying  boy 
for  his  mother's  sake,  penning  a  love  letter  for  an 
other  who  will  be  "  gone  hence "  long  before  the 
sadly  precious  words  reach  their  destination. 

He  supports  himself  for  two  or  three  years  as  cor 
respondent  for  northern  journals,  and  in  addition  to 
the  little  he  is  enabled  to  expend  from  his  own 
income,  he  is  the  trusted  almoner  of  bountiful  hands 
—  wealthy  women  in  Salem,  Boston  and  New  York. 

In  1864,  after  three  years  of  assiduous  labor,  and 
latterly  of  most  exhausting  watching  and  waiting 
upon  soldiers  whose  wounds  from  the  extreme  heat 


Walt  Whitman.  49 

and  previous  neglect  have  become  terrible,his  health, 
which  until  then  had  been  a  marvel  of  superb  robust 
ness,  gave  way  and  he  was  prostrated  by  the  first 
sickness  of  his  life  —  was  ordered  north  —  and  lay 
ill  for  six  months. 

Upon  his  partial  recovery  (for  he  has  never  re 
covered),  he  returned  to  Washington,  and  was  given 
a  position  in  the  Department  of  the  Interior.  A 
goodly  portion  of  his  salary  and  his  leisure  hours 
were  devoted  to  hospital  work,  and  as  "prophet, 
poet,  or  priest,"  the  tenderest,  heartfulest  tribute 
that  can  be  paid  to  Walt  Whitman  must  come  from 
the  suffering  soldier  boys  he  nursed  back  to  life, 
boys  who  are  men  to-day,  and  whose  eyes  brighten 
and  moisten  at  his  name,  and  from  the  silence  of 
those  who  died  in  his  arms,  and  whose  requiem  he 
has  so  touchingly  chanted. 

Here  are  some  lines  from  his  "  Drum  Taps "  in 
which  the  great  Mother  of  All  is  represented  as 
stalking  in  desperation  over  the  earth,  mournfully 
crying : 

"  Absorb   them   well,   O   my  earth,   she  cried  —  I  charge  you 

lose  not  my  sons  !  lose  not  an  atom ; 

And  you  streams,  absorb  them  well,  taking  their  dear  blood; 
And  you  local  spots,  and  you  airs  that  swim  above  lightly, 
And  all  you  essences  of  soil  and  growth  —  and  you  my  rivers' 

depths ; 


50  Poefs  Homes. 

And  you  mountain  sides  —  and  the  woods  where  my  dear  chil 

dren's  blood  trickled,  reddened  ; 
And  you  trees,  down  to  your  roots,  to  bequeath  to  all   future 

trees, 
My  dead  absorb  —  my  young  men's  beautiful  bodies  absorb  — 

and  their  precious,  precious,  precious  blood ; 
Which  holding  in  trust  for  me,  faithfully  back  again  give  me 

many  a  year  hence ; 

In  blowing  airs  from  the   fields,  back  again  give  me  my  dar 
lings — give  my  immortal  heroes; 
Exhale  me  them  centuries  hence  — breathe  me  their  breath  — let 

not  an  atom  be  lost, 
O  years  and  graves  !     O  air  and  soil  I     0  my  dead  are  aroma 

sweet ! 
Exhale  them,  perennial,  sweet  death,  years,  centuries  hence." 

As  a  clerk,  Walt  Whitman  did  his  work  well,  poet 
though  he  was,  mechanical  as  his  work  was,  and 
modest  as  was  his  pay.  We  never  hear  him  com 
plaining  of  the  "  thankless  government."  A  preju 
diced  official  removes  him  at  one  time,  because  he  is 
the  author  of  that  "  strange  book  "  —  "  Leaves  oi 
Grass."  Another  official,  of  broader  mental  calibre, 
re-instates  him  in  the  Attorney  General's  office, 
because  perhaps,  that  he  is  author  of  "Leaves  of 
Grass,"  and  a  faithful,  trustworthy  clerk.  This  posi 
tion  he  holds  until  1873,  when  the  remnant  of  strength 
and  health  that  escaped  destruction  during  the  war, 
yields  to  nervous  paralysis,  and  helpless  and  gray, 
hair  and  beard  by  many  years  prematurely  whitened 
he  quits  work  and  goes  to  Camden,  N.  J.,  to  live. 


Walt   Whitman.  5 1 

These  later  years  of  illness  have  undoubtedly  been 
the  hardest  years  in  the  life  of  the  poet.  Helpless 
and  half  sick,  his  ills  have  been  aggravated  by  pecu 
liarly  trying  circumstances.  Repeated  attempts  to 
secure  a  small  income  by  writing  for  the  magazines 
have  met  with  no  success.  Magazines  as  well  as 
publishing  houses,  great  and  small,  have  been  as  so 
many  closed  avenues  to  him,  and  several  of  his  agents 
one  after  another  taking  advantage  of  his  helpless 
ness,  have  put  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  his  books 
in  their  own  pockets.  But  under  all  this,  no  word  of 
complaint,  no  tone  or  look  of  discouragement,  for  our 
poet  is  withal  a  philosopher.  Always  cheerful  anj 
serene  he  stands  fast  and  strong,  like  a  great  rock 
lashed  about  by  ocean  billows ;  or  like  some  prophet 
with  gifted  sight  who  sees  a-down  the  vistas  of  time 
a  shining  verdict  —  one  which  all  men  read  and  see 
to  be  true. 

Latterly,  however,  Mr.  Whitman  has  been  getting 
better,  and  is  more  resolute  and  persevering  than 
ever.  Many  a  gleam  of  sunshine  comes  to  him  from 
friends  at  home  and  abroad,  especially  from  England 
where  he  is  greatly  appreciated,  and  if  appreciation 
be  measured  by  its  quality  rather  than  by  its  quantity, 
no  poet  of  the  century  is  more  read  than  he. 

During  the  past  twelve  months  he  has  prepared 


52  Poets'  Homes. 

with  his  own  hands  an  edition  of  his  works,  in  two 
volumes,  which  he  himself  sells.  One  is  entitled 
"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  and  the  other  "  Two  Rivulets." 
Both  volumes  contain  his  photograph,  put  in  with  his 
own  hands,  his  signature,  and  are  in  a  way  charged 
with  his  own  personal  magnetism  — "  authors'  edi 
tions,"  indeed.  The  price  for  these  volumes  is  nec 
essarily  high,  as  the  edition  is  very  small,  not  over  one 
hundred  and  fifty  copies.  I  think  he  must  make  a  poor 
agent  for  himself,  for  once  when  a  party  proposed  to 
purchase,  he  quite  earnestly  advised  them  not  to  buy ! 

As  to  Walt  Whitman's  "  home "  it  must  be  con 
fessed  that  he  has  none  and  for  many  years  has  had 
none  in  the  special  sense  of  "home;"  neither  has  he 
the  usual  library  or  "den"  for  composition  and  work. 
He  composes  everywhere  —  much  in  the  open  air, 
formerly  while  writing  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  sometimes 
in  the  New  York  and  Brooklyn  ferries,  sometimes  on 
the  top  of  omnibuses  in  the  roar  of  Broadway,  or 
amid  the  most  crowded  haunts  of  the  city,  or  the 
shipping  by  day  —  and  then  at  night,  often  in  the 
Democratic  Amphitheater  of  the  Fourteenth  Street 
opera  house.  The  pieces  in  his  "  Drum  Taps  "  were 
all  prepared  in  camp,  in  the  midst  of  war  scenes,  on 
picket  or  the  march,  in  the  army. 

He  now  spends  the  summer  mostly  at  a  pleasant 


Walt    Whitman.  53 

farm  "down  in  Jersey,"  where  he  likes  best  to  "loaf" 
by  a  secluded,  picturesque  pond  on  Timber  Creek. 
It  is  in  such  places,  and  in  the  country  at  large,  in 
the  West  on  the  prairies,  by  the  Pacific,  in  cities  too 
—  New  York,  Washington,  New  Orleans,  along  Long 
Island  shore  where  he  well  loves  to  linger,  that  Walt 
Whitman  has  really  had  his  home  and  place  of  com 
position.  He  is  now  58  years  old,  and  has  his  "head 
quarters,"  as  he  calls  it,  at  Camden,  where  a  brother 
resides.  It  is  understood  that  he  is  leisurely  en 
gaged  in  still  further  digesting,  completing,  and 
adding  to  his  volumes. 

In  person  Mr.  Whitman  is  tall,  erect  and  stout, 
and  moves  about  with  the  aid  of  a  large  cane.  His 
white  hair,  thrown  straight  back  from  his  brow,  and 
full  white  beard,  give  him  a  striking  and  patriarchal 
appearance.  His  cheeks  are  fresh  and  ruddy;  his 
forehead  is  deeply  furrowed  with  horizontal  lines :  in 
conversation  his  blue  gray  eyes  seem  prone  to  hide 
themselves  under  the  falling  eyelids,  which  are  pres 
ently  suddenly  lifted  as  if  by  a  thought.  His  voice  is 
clear  and  firm,  his  manner  free  from  all  affectation  or 
eccentricity,  and  is  eminently  natural  and  social.  He 
is  not  specially  gifted,  or  fluent  in  conversation  —  is 
fond  of  society,  and  confesses  that  as  he  grows  older, 
his  love  for  humanity  has  come  to  be  almost  a  hun- 


54  Ports' 

ger  for  the  presence  of  human  beings.  He  is  a  great 
favorite  with  children,  and  bachelor  as  he  has  been 
all  his  life,  his  nature  is  as  sweet  and  gentle,  his  heart 
is  sympathetic  and  young,  as  tender  and  true  as  if 
he  were  the  happiest  grandsire  around  whose  knees 
sunny-haired  children  ever  clung. 

In  his  dress  he  is  very  simple,  but  scrupulously 
neat  and  clean.  His  most  intimate  friends  are  plenty 
of  cold  water  and  pure  air.  He  always  wears  his 
shirts  open  at  the  throat  —  a  heathful,  but  uncommon 
habit. 

Among  his  "  household  gods  "  are  two  prized  por 
traits  ;  one  is  of  himself,  painted  some  years  ago  by 
Charles  Hine  of  New  York,  who,  on  his  death  bed 
gave  it  to  the  poet.  The  other  is  a  photographic  por 
trait  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  sent  by  the  "  Laureate  "  to 
Whitman.  In  a  letter  accompanying  the  picture,  Mr. 
Tennyson  says  that  his  wife  pronounces  it  the  best 
likeness  ever  made  of  him  —  certainly  it  is  a  very 
handsome  one,  and  few  copies  were  made  from  the 
plate,  as  it  was,  unfortunately,  soon  after  broken. 

Of  the  other  Whitman  children,  none  have  devel 
oped  a  poetic  talent.  According  to  a  good  humored 
remark  of  himself,  "  they  think  writing  poetry  is  the 
sheerest  nonsense."  Two  of  his  brothers  are  engi 
neers.  One  of  them,  Col.  George  W.  Whitman,  was 


Walt    Whitman. 


55 


a  gallant  army  officer  during  the  whole  war. 

The  portraits  given  with  this  sketch  are  character 
istic.  The  third  one,  with  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  he 
calls  his  "Quaker  picture."  His  maternal  grand 
mother  was  a  Quakeress. 

The  autograph  accompanying  portrait  number  three, 
gives  a  fair  idea  of  the  strong,  legible  script  that  comes 
from  his  pen.     He  writes  with  frequent  erasures,  show 
ing  a  delicacy  and  keen  sense  of  fitness  in  the  choice 
of  words  that  are  not  readily  responded  to,  owing  un 
doubtedly  to  a  lack  of  suitable  discipline  in  his  early 
education. 

As  to  his  poetry,  there  are  almost  as  many  opinions 
as  there  are  readers  of  it.  The  best  judgment  one 
can  have  of  it,  is  to  read  it  for  himself,  study  it,  for 
there  is  far  more  in  it,  at  all  times,  than  may  at  first 
appear.  For  readers  with  rural  tastes  here  are 
some  lines  descriptive  of  a  scene  in  northern  New 
York : 

THE   OX   TAMER. 

In  a  far  away  northern   country,  in  the  placid,  pastoral  region, 
Lives  my  farmer  friend,   the  theme  of    my  recitative,  a  famous 

Tamer  of  Oxen : 
There  they  bring  him  the  three-year-olds  and  the  four-year-olds, 

to  break  them ; 

He  will  take  the  wildest  steer  in  the  world,  and  break  him  and 
tame  him  ; 


5  6  Poets'   Homes. 

He  will  go,  fearless,  without  any  whip,  where  the  young  bullock 

chafes  up  and  down  the  yard  ; 

The  bullock's  head  tosses  restless  high  in  the  air,  with  raging  eyes; 
Yet,  see  you  1  how  soon  his  rage  subsides — how  soon  this  Tamer 

tames  him : 
See  you  I  on  the  farms  hereabout,  a  hundred  oxen,  young  and 

old — and  he  is  the  man  who  has  tamed  them; 
They  all  know  him  —  all  are  affectionate  to  him; 
See  you  !  some  are  such  beautiful  animals  —  so  lofty  looking. 
Some  are  buff  color'd  —  some  mottled  —  one  has  a  white  line 

running  along  his  back—  some  are  brindled, 
Some  have  wide  flaring  horns  (a  good  sign)  —  See  you  !  the 

bright  hides : 
See,  the   two  with  stars  on  their  foreheads  —  See,  the  round 

bodies  and  broad  backs ; 
See,  how  straight  and  square  they  stand  on  their  legs — See, 

what  fine,  sagacious  eyes  ; 
See,  how  they  watch  their  Tamer  —  they  wish  him  near  them — 

how  they  turn  to  look  after  him  ! 
What  yearning  expression !  how  uneasy  they  are  when  he  moves 

away  from  them : 

— Now  I  marvel  what  it  can  be  he  appears  to  them,  (books,  pol 
itics,  poems,  depart  —  all  else  departs ; ) 
I  confess  I  envy  only   his  fascination  —  my  silent,   illiterate 

friend. 

Whom  a  hundred  oxen  love,  there  in  his  life  on  farms, 
In  the  northern  country  far,  in  the  placid,  pastoral  region. 

In  conclusion,  I  select  his  poem  on  "Lincoln  — 
dead"  every  line  of  which  sounds  like  a  knell.  I 
am  sure  no  sadder  thrills  were  ever  penned  by  poet, 
every  verse  seems  to  have  been  drawn  through  the 
poet's  own  bleeding  heart : 


Walt    Whitman.  59 

3  Captain  !  my  Captain  I  our  fearful  trip  is  done  ; 
'he  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won 
he  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
/hile  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring  ! 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

)  Captain  !  my  Captain  1  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells  ; 

Use  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills ; 

'or  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding ; 

•"or  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 
Here  Captain  !  dear  father  1 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ; 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Vfy  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still ; 

Vly  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 

Fhe  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage   closed  and 

done; 

From  fearful  trip,  the  victor  ship,  comes  in  with  object  won ; 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells  1 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

"  \  POET  without  a  Home  "would  not  be  an 
-L\.  inappropriate  title  for  the  present  article. 
The  other  bards  mentioned  in  this  series  have  all 
domiciled  themselves  in  comfortable  quarters,  ranging 
from  aristocratic  old  mansions  like  Elmwood,  or  the 
Craigie  House,  to  such  snug  suites  of  rooms  as  all  but 
very  rich  ftrw  Yorkers  must  content  themselves  with. 
But  Joaquin  Miller  comes  pretty  near  being,  like 
Goldsmith,  a  citizen  of  the  world.  The  other  day  he 
was  praising  the  gentle  temper  and  kindly  modesty  of 
Mr.  Longfellow,  and  suddenly  said  : 

"  What  a  home  he  has  !     How  I  envy  him,  1  who 
60 


Joaquin  Miller.  61 

have  no  home  !  How  I  long  for  a  home,  some  place 
I  can  call  my  own  1 " 

The  poet  seldom  speaks  thus,  contenting  himself, 
as  a  rule,  with  the  wild  freedom  which  makes  him 
happy  under  Shasta  to-day  and  beside  the  Nile  to 
morrow.  Once,  however,  as  he  sat  in  a  room  in  a 
New  York  hotel,  whose  luxuries  were  his  only  for  the 
night,  he  pointed  to  a  box  of  quills  —  real,  old-fash 
ioned  goose-feathers  —  and  said : 

"  There !  that's  all  I  have  in  the  world,  and  all  1 
want." 

Omnia  mea  mecum  porto,  he  might  have  said  were 
he  not,  like  Shakespeare,  the  master  of  small  Latin ; 
for  he  can  carry  all  his  goods  in  his  pocket,  save,  per 
haps  his  pet  saddle,  which  he  would  willingly  trans 
port  down  Broadway  on  his  back. 

The  average  reader  hardly  knows  how  many  famous 
writers  have  become  familiar  under  other  Christian 
names  than  those  their  parents  gave  them.  Mr. 
Charles  John  Hougham  Dickens  quietly  dropped  his 
two  middle  names,  probably  concluding  that  the  pro 
duct  of  the  extremes  was  equal  to  that  of  the  means  ; 
Mr.  Cincinnatus  Heine  Miller,  in  like  manner,  con 
cluded  that  he  would  rather  celebrate  one  name  than 
be  celebrated  by  two,  and  so  invented  one  for  him 
self.  He  was  born  in  one  of  the  best  parts  of  Indi- 


62  Poets'    Homes. 

ana,  the  Wabash  region,  on  November  10,  1841,  and 
lived  there  for  thirteen  years,  when  Hulins  Miller,  his 
father,  determined  to  go  to  Oregon  with  his  family. 
That  was  long  before  the  days  of  Pacific  railroads, 
and  even  the  weary  wagon  ride  across  the  plains  was 
neither  safe  nor  expeditious.  What  with  the  monoto 
nous  drive  across  the  level  country,  and  the  difficult 
passage  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  it  was  three  months 
before  the  destination,  the  Willamette  Valley,  was 
reached.  Of  course  as  little  baggage  as  possible  was 
taken,  but  household  stores  and  cooking  utensils  were 
a  neccessity  ;  and  it  not  infrequently  happened  that 
prowling  Indians,  or  equally  covetous  wild  beasts,  mad; 
a  swoop  for  plunder  on  such  little  bands  of  pilgrims. 
The  long  solemn  marches  by  day ;  the  perilous  en 
campment  by  night,  when  watch-fires  were  built  to 
keep  off  animals,  and  muskets  were  loaded  as  a  pre 
caution  against  Indian  invasion  ;  the  every-day  com 
panionship  of  all  that  is  grand  and  inspiring  in  natu 
ral  scenery  —  all  these  things  impress  a  boy  quite  ai 
much  as  a  man,  and  to  their  existence  is  doubtless; 
due  much  of  young  Miller's  later  love  of  poetry.  Ho 
was  thirteen  years  old,  an  age,  when,  if  ever,  come 
romantic  dreams  of  adventure  and  discovery.  But 
what  other  boys  were  eagerly  reading  in  the  novels  o/ 


Joaquin  Miller.  63 

James  Fenimore  Cooper,  was  present  before  Miller's 
very  eyes. 

There  were  seven  in  the  family,  four  of  the  children 
being  sons  and  one  a  daughter.  Eugene  City,  in 
Lane  County,  Oregon,  was  their  new  home,  but  young 
Cincinnatus  was  not  long  content  to  remain  in  a  re 
gion  which  to  most  would  have  seemed  sufficiently 
romantic.  The  California  mining  excitement  had 
now  been  raging  for  five  years,  and  thither  went  the 
lad  to  try  his  fortune  as  a  gold-digger.  He  contrived 
to  make  money  enough  to  pay  his  current  expenses, 
and  very  likely  had,  with  all  the  rest,  his  "  flush  "  days 
and  his  months  of  deepest  poverty. 

He  went  back  to  Oregon  in  1859  without  the 
princely  fortune  he  had  pictured  to  himself  in  his 
dreams,  and  was  soon  stung  by  one  of  the  most  praise 
worthy  of  ambitions,  that  of  getting  a  little  "  book- 
learning."  He  was  still  a  mere  boy,  only  eighteen, 
and  the  books  he  studied  were  of  an  elementary  de 
scription.  It  is  hard  for  a  lad  who  has  been  out  in 
the  world  to  content  himself  long  with  the  restraints 
of  a  school-room,  and  Miller  soon  got  out  of  that  irk 
some  place. 

Artemus  Ward  once  remarked  of  Chaucer  that  "  he 
was  a  great  poet,  but  he  couldn't  spell ; "  and  we 


64  Poets'  Homes. 

shall  not  hurt  Joaquin  Miller's  feelings  if  we  say  that 
both  statements  are  true  in  his  case.  The  poet,  in 
fact,  takes  some  pride  in  his  phonetic  disregard  of 
current  orthography,  for,  as  he  himself  says,  "you 
can't  expect  a  fellow  to  write,  and  spell,  and  do  every 
thing." 

Then  followed  a  year  as  pony-express  driver,  in 
which  the  ordinary  dangers  of  a  teamster  in  the  west 
ern  wilds  were  aggravated  by  the  fact  that  he  must 
carry  the  United  States  mails,  which  were  favorite 
prey  both  for  Indians  and  whites.  Back  again  in  Eu 
gene  City,  the  miner,  express-driver,  and  school-boy 
made  his  belated  entry  into  literature  by  assuming 
the  editorship  of  The  Eugene  City  Review,  to  which 
he  soon  began  to  contribute  poems  signed  "  Joaquin," 
a  nickname  he  had  brought  home  with  him  from  Cal 
ifornia.  The  publication  of  this  paper  was  stopped 
for  political  reasons.  His  habit  of  scribbling  verse 
had  been  begun  long  before,  but  he  printed  nothing 
until  he  became  satisfied  that  the  public,  that  is,  his 
public,  would  like  it.  Miller  is  a  curious  union  of  ut 
ter  independence  of,  and  of  suitable  deference  to,  the 
world  at  large.  He  writes  what  he  must,  and  he 
prints  what  he  chooses. 

The  poet's  migrations  were  continued  by  a  settle 
ment  at  Canyon  City,  in  Grant  County,  Oregon,  where 


Miller.  6j 

he  unexpectedly  appeared  as  an  attorney-at-law,  though 
his  legal  investigations  must  have  been  of  a  some 
what  limited  extent.  But  he  was  brilliant  and  indus 
trious,  and  soon  was  honored  by  an  election  as  Judge 
of  Grant  County.  The  cases  tried  before  him  were 
not  less  interesting  and  romantic  than  everything  else 
in  his  career,  but  they  were  not  so  many  as  to  leave 
him  no  time  for  writing.  Poem  after  poem  was  writ 
ten,  to  be  elaborated  or  thrown  away  as  pleased  the 
poet's  fancy. 

By  1869,  after  three  or  four  years'  rather  monoto  • 
nous  service  in  his  judicial  capacity,  the  poet  had  ac 
cumulated  quite  a  bundle  of  manuscript,  and  a  selec 
tion  therefrom  was  printed  at  his  own  expense  in  a 
little  volume  whose  circulation  was  gratuitous.  Joa- 
quin  wished  to  see  what  the  public  thought  of  his  po 
etical  ambition,  and  so  he  sent  copies  of  his  book  to 
his  friends  and  to  the  editors  of  papers  in  California 
and  Oregon,  nearly  all  of  whom  returned  a  favorable 
verdict. 

Made  happy  by  this  expression  of  opinion  in  his 
favor,  but  longing  for  the  appreciation  of  a  wider  and 
more  critical  world,  Miller  went  to  London  in  1870, 
his  family  having  been  broken  up  in  a  way  that  has 
never  ceased  to  be  a  grief  to  the  poet.  Whether  the 
choice  of  London  was  a  piece  of  sagacity  or  of  good 


<&  Poets'   Homes. 

luck,  it  is  not  important  to  discuss,  but  it  was  most 
fortunate  that  he,  of  all  our  poets,  went  to  a  place 
whose  literary  traditions  and  fashions  were  utterly 
foreign  to  the  themes  and  the  manner  of  an  Oregoni- 
an's  productions.  Arrived  in  London,  he  had  little 
money,  and  so  he  prudently  took  humble  lodgings  in 
a  garret,  saving  his  available  funds  for  the  printing  of 
a  sample  volume  of  verse.  His  friend  Walt  Whit 
man's  first  book  was  shabbily  printed  on  cheap  paper 
by  Whitman  himself,  but  Miller,  wisely  guaging  the 
fastidiousness  of  the  London  public,  produced  his 
thin  volume  in  the  handsomest  typography  of  the 
Chiswick  Press.  The  collection  at  once  attracted  at 
tention,  especially  of  the  Rossetti  family  and  other 
members  of  the  school  of  poets  and  artists  known  as 
"  pre-Paphaelites."  Between  Miller  and  these  people 
—  the  Rossettis,  Swinburne,  Morris,  Marston,  Payne, 
and  O'Shaughnessy  —  there  was  near  kinship  both  in 
tastes  and  in  style.  The  Englishmen,  sick  of  formal 
ity  and  artificiality,  liked  the  breezy  freedom  of  the 
poet  of  the  far  west :  and  he,  in  turn,  was  influenced 
by  them  in  the  improvement  of  his  lyrical  expression, 
which  lost  none  of  its  fire  by  being  impressed  within 
more  careful  bounds. 

The  old  publishing  house  of  the  Longmans,  in  con 
sideration  of  the  merit  of  the  specimen  poems  and 


jfoaquin  Miller,  69 

the  recommendations  of  Mr.  Miller's  new  and  power 
ful  literary  friends,  brought  out  a  volume  of  poems, 
"Songs  of  the  Sierras,"  in  1871.  The  poet  may  al 
most  be  said  with  truth,  like  Lord  Byron,  to  have 
waked  up  one  morning  to  find  himself  famous.  Lord- 
Houghton,  that  cheery  patron  of  young  literary  men, 
clambered  up  Miller's  attic  stairs  to  find  him  sleeping 
under  a  buffalo  robe  ;  and  the  long-haired  poet,  with 
red  shirt,  and  trousers  tucked  into  his  boots,  was  soon 
the  most  noticeable  figure  in  many  gatherings  of  Lon 
don  celebrities.  Almost  all  the  leading  papers  and 
magazines  praised  his  book,  and  so,  like  Washington 
Irving,  Miller  was  enabled  to  return  to  his  own  coun 
try  with  a  reputation  already  secured.  His  book  was 
published  in  Boston  the  same  year,  and  made  a  sen 
sation  scarcely  less,  though  of  course  Americans  were 
more  familiar  with  his  subjects  and  general  manner 
than  Englishmen  could  be  expected  to  be. 

Since  the  time  of  this  first  great  success  Joaquin 
Miller  has  published  six  other  books  :  "  Songs  of  the 
Sun-Lands;"  "The  Ship  in  the  Desert;"  "Life 
amongst  the  Modocs  ; "  "  The  First  Fam'lies  of  the 
Sierras ; "  "  The  One  Fair  Woman,"  and  "  The  Bar 
oness  of  New  York."  Of  these  the  Modoc  volume  is 
a  collection  of  prose  sketches  of  wild  life  among  the 
Indians,  chiefly  written  for  English  readers;  "The 


70  Poets'  Homes. 

One  Fair  Woman  "  is  an  Italian  novel ;  and  "  The 
First  Fam'lies  of  the  Sierras  "  is  mingled  sketch  and 
story.  The  others  are  poetry,  of  which  the  lesser 
pieces  were  for  the  most  part  already  printed  in  vari 
ous  periodicals.  "  The  Ship  in  the  Desert "  and  "  The 
Baroness  of  New  York"  are  longer  single  works 
which  first  appeared  in  book  form. 

Mr.  Miller's  poetry  is  never  prosy,  but  his  prose  is 
hardly  less  poetical  than  his  verse,  especially  in  its 
descriptive  passages.  For  instance,  Mount  Shasta  is 
'lonely  as  God,  and  white  as  a  winter  moon."  It 
would  be  hard  to  choose  nine  words  which  should 
be  so  daring  and  yet  not  irreverent,  so  carelessly 
chosen  and  yet  so  exquisitely  fit.  Mr.  Miller  also 
has  a  good  sense  of  humor  and  describes  life  in  the 
outskirts  of  civilization  with  cleverness  and  power, 
both  in  sketch  and  story.  As  a  social  satirist,  or  a 
novelist  of  life  under  the  old  civilizations,  he  is  less 
successful.  Cities  he  began  by  cordially  hating ;  New 
York,  when  he  entered  it  for  the  first  time,  seemed  to 
him  "  a  big  den  of  small  thieves."  Later,  however, 
he  has  gloried  in  hunting  out  metropolitan  by-ways, 
and  London  low  life  has  had  no  more  appreciative 
observer.  Nature,  he  knows  thoroughly  and  loves 
with  a  steady  affection ;  the  abodes  of  man  he  either 
curses  too  malignantly  or  magnifies  too  highly. 


Miller.  71 

We  have  said  that  Joaquin  Miller  is  a  poet  without 
a  home.  Although  increasing  fame  has  compelled 
him  to  live  within  reach  of  his  publishers,  and  large 
literary  revenues  as  author  and  playwright  —  for  he 
has  written  a  successful  drama,  "  The  Danites "  — 
have  come  to  him,  he  still  retains  his  fondness  for 
travel,  and  has  laid  the  old  world  and  three  continents 
under  contribution  for  desultory  study.  In  1873  he 
sailed  for  Europe  for  the  second  time  and  returned  in 
1875,  in  time  for  the  Philadelphia  exhibition  of  1876, 
which  was  to  him  a  scene  of  the  greatest  interest. 
While  abroad  he  passed  through  the  Mediterranean 
to  Egypt,  which  seldom  saw  a  more  suggestive  sight 
than  this  Oregonian,  standing  reverently  beside  the 
Nile  or  beneath  the  pyramids.  On  the  way  back  he 
lingered  long  in  Italy,  which  so  charmed  him  that  we 
half  began  to  fear  that  a  second  American  poet  — 
William  W.  Story  was  the  first  —  would  be  stolen 
from  us  by  the  Italian  sky.  Venice  was  specially 
dear  to  the  poet,  and  for  Rome  he  felt  mingled  like 
and  dislike,  glorying  in  its  age  and  hating  its  squalor. 
The  aim  of  the  "  pre-Raphselite  "  poets  to  whom  we 
have  alluded  is  to  be  faithful  to  nature  in  the  minut 
est  particulars,  and  yet  to  make  the  baldest  language 
glow  with  feeling.  Taking  this  for  a  test,  was  their 
design  ever  better  fulfilled  than  in  this  remarkable 


72  Poets'  ffomes. 

poem  on  the  eternal  city  ?  We  are  sometimes  tempted 
to  call  it  the  best  thing  Joaquin  Miller  ever  wrote, 
notwithstanding  his  Indian  maidens,  Nicaraguan  ad 
ventures,  or  Rocky  Mountain  pictures : 

ROME. 

"  Some  leveled  hills,  a  wall,  a  dome 

That  lords  its  gilded  arch  and  lies, 

While  at  its  base  a  beggar  cries 
For  bread  and  dies  ;  and  this  is  Rome  ; 

"  A  wolf-like  stream,  without  a  sound, 

Steals  through  and  hides  beneath  the  shore, 
Its  awful  secrets  evermore 

Within  its  sullen  bosom  bound  ; 

"  Two  lone  palms  on  the  Palatine, 
A  row  of  cypress,  black  and  tall. 
With  white  roots  set  in  Caesar's  hall, 

White  roots  that  round  white  marbles  twine  ; 

"They  watch  along  a  broken  wall, 
They  look  away  toward  Lebanon, 
And  mourn  for  grandeur  dead  and  gone,- 

A.nd  this  was  Rome,  and  this  is  all. 

"  Yet  Rome  is  Rome,  and  Rome  she  must 
And  will  remain  beside  her  gate, 
And  tribute  take  from  king  and  state 

Until  the  stars  be  fallen  to  dust. 

"  Yea,  Time  on  yon  Campanian  plain 
Mas  pitched  in  siege  his  battle-tents, 
And  round  about  her  battlements 

Has  marched  and  trumpeted  in  vain. 


Joaquin  Miller.  73 

"  These  skies  are  Rome  !  the  very  loam 
Lifts  up  and  speaks  in  Roman  pride ; 
And  Time,  outfaced  and  still  defied, 

Sits  by  and  wags  his  beard  at  Rome  !  " 

But  "  one  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world 
kin  ; "  not  only  that  fondness  for  new-fashioned  toys 
which  led  Shakespeare  to  make  this  famous  saying, 
but  also  one  throb  of  poetry  or  one  sight  of  anything 
that  inspires  poetry.  And  so  Joaquin  Miller,  wher 
ever  he  is,  in  a  pony-express  saddle,  in  an  Oregon 
judge's  chair,  fighting  with  Walker  in  Nicaragua  (we 
had  almost  forgotten  that  episode  in  his  career  ),  in  a 
poor  London  attic,  beside  the  pyramid  of  Cheops,  on 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  Venice,  or  with  the  newsboys 
in  the  cheapest  gallery  of  the  theatre  where  his  play  is 
produced,  is  always  a  sunny  and  warm-hearted  lyrist, 
who  tries  to  take  the  world  for  all  it  is  worth  and  to 
increase  its  happiness. 

Almost  every  one  of  our  leading  American  poets  is 
of  handsome  or  striking  appearance.  But  none  of 
them  —  the  kindly-eyed  Longfellow,  the  aged  and 
Socratic  Bryant,  the  brown-haired  Lowell,  the  shaggy 
Whitman  —  is  more  noticeable  on  the  street  than 
Joaquin  Miller.  When  he  first  startled  London,  like 
a  fresh  chill  breath  from  his  own  Sierras,  he  was  a 
weird  object.  His  hat  was  of  the  broadest-brimmed 


74  Poets'  Homes. 

and  most  ancient  variety,  his  shirt  was  violent  red, 
his  rough  trousers  were  tucked  into  his  cavalier  boots, 
and  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  his  hands  or  his  watch- 
chain  were  adorned  with  the  greatest  quantity  of 
"barbaric  gold."  His  hair  was  very  long  and  fine, 
and  both  his  beard  and  hair  were  of  a  curious  tawny 
color,  not  unlike  the  red  gold  now  in  vogue.  In  later 
years,  whether  from  a  happy  thought  or  'the  sugges 
tion  of  some  friend  1  know  not,  he  has  assumed  less 
uncivilized  apparel,  and  nowadays,  though  his  coat 
and  cloak  are  of  simple  cut,  their  cloth  is  of  the  finest, 
and  a  rose  or  two  is  apt  to  bloom  in  the  button-hole. 
The  peculiarity  of  Miller's  face  is  its  sunny  smile  which 
is  a  pleasure  to  see.  In  conversation  he  talks  very 
fast,  and  with  a  poet's  hatred  of  too  long  dalliance 
with  any  single  subject. 

He  has  as  many  eccentricities  as  a  dozen  ordinary 
poets ;  and  in  opinions  as  in  clothes  he  is  not,  in 
Emerson's  phrase,  "the  slave  of  his  yesterdays." 
But  still,  with  all  his  whim-whams  and  foibles,  he 
is  a  poet,  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  is  true  of  Shel 
ley,  and  Keats,  and  Swinburne,  and  James  Russell 
Lowell. 

He  has  never  written  a  children's  poem,  perhaps 
because  it  seems  to  him  the  hardest  of  all  tasks  to  do 
as  it  ought  to  be  done.  But  in  one  of  his  Palestine 


Joaauin  Miller.  75 

loems  he  has  given  such  a  pretty  picture  of  the  scene 
/hen  the  mothers  of  Judah  brought  their  little  ones 
D  Christ  for  a  blessing  that  every  child  will  be  glad 
3  read  it  here : 


"  They  brought  Him  their  babes,  and  besought  him, 

Half  kneeling,  with  suppliant  air, 
To  bless  the  brown  cherubs  they  brought  him, 

With  holy  hands  laid  in  their  hair. 

"  Then  reaching  his  hands  he  said,  lowly. 

'  Of  such  is  My  Kingdom ; '  and  then 
Took  the  brown  little  babes  in  the  holy 

White  hands  of  the  Saviour  of  men  ; 

"  Held  them  close  to  his  heart  and  caressed  them, 
Put  his  face  down  to  theirs  as  in  prayer, 

Put  their  hands  to  his  neck,  and  so  blessed  them 
With  baby  hands  hid  in  his  hair." 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 

AT  the  Semi-Centennial  of  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,   on  August   4th,    1858,  one  of  the 
speakers  made  the  following  remarks  : 

"  There  is  one  spot  near  us  which  has  to  me  more  in 
teresting  associations  than  any  other  on  these  grounds. 
I  refer  to  the  Study  of  the  Bartlett  Professor.  Tf 
its  unwritten  history  could  be  published  it  would 
form  an  interesting  chapter  in  the  religious  history  of 
our  country  and  of  Christendom.  It  would  reveal 
suggestions  of  wise  forecast,  original  plans  of  useful 
ness,  the  starting  of  thoughts  and  movements  and  in- 
76 


Elizabeth  SHart  J 'helps.  77 

ititutions  amidst  conference  and  prayer,  the  influence 
)f  which  has  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  world.  Soon 
ifter  its  occupancy  by  the  second  Professor  of  Rhetoric 
n  1812,  there  was  established  in  it  a  weekly  meeting 
'or  prayer,  and  for  devising  ways  and  means  of  doing 
pod.  .  .  .  And  in  this  little  meeting  there  were 
slanted  and  cherished  into  growth  many  germs  which 
ire  now  plants  of  renown  and  trees  of  life.  In  An- 
dover  the  scheme  of  Foreign  Missions  first  assumed 
the  visible  and  tangible  form  which  gave  rise  to  the 
American  Board,  and  Mills  was  one  of  the  four  stu 
dents  whose  names  were  signed  to  that  memorable 
paper  drawn  up  here  (in  this  study)  and  which,  after 
consultation,  was  presented  to  the  General  Association, 
and  led  to  the  formation  of  the  earliest  and  largest 
Foreign  Missionary  Association  in  our  land.  Here, 
too,  was  instituted  the  Monthly  Concert.  The  pro 
posal  of  such  a  union  of  Christianity  in  America 
as  had  already  existed  in  Scotland  was  made  and  con 
sidered  at  the  meeting  in  this  Study. 

"  In  1813,  Dr.  Porter  (the  Bartlett  Professor)  pur 
chased  a  little  book,  when  the  thought  strikes  him  that 
by  associated  action  and  contribution,  religious  publi 
cations  might  be  made  cheaper,  and  more  generally 
diffused.  This  thought  was  presented  to  the  little 


78  Poet? 

meeting  of  brethren  in  this  Study,  and  at  once  gre\v 
into  the  New  England  Tract  Society. 

"  The  question  has  been  more  than  once  raised  — 
'  Who  originated  and  established  the  first  religious 
newspaper  in  the  world  ?  '  A  witness  still  living 
states  positively,  as  a  matter  of  personal  knowledge, 
that  the  '  Boston  Recorder  '  had  its  birth  in  Dr.  Por 
ter's  Study. 

"  The  want  of  a  Society,  national  in  its  operations, 
for  aiding  young  men  in  their  education  for  the  minis 
try  is  felt.  It  is  talked  over  at  the  Study-meeting  al 
Andover ;  and  as  the  result  there  arises  the  American 
Education  Society. 

"That  the  American  Bible  Society  was  originated 
through  any  influence  proceeding  from  Andover  is  not 
affirmed ;  yet  certain  it  is  that  before  it  was  organized 
in  New  York  the  importance  of  such  a  national  insti 
tution,  in  addition  to  the  Massachusetts  Bible  Society, 
was  a  matter  of  special  consultation  in  this  circle  of 
brethren.  And  it  may  be  stated  with  confidence  that 
the  American  Home  Missionary  Society  was  the  re 
sult  of  thoughts  and  suggestions  that  went  forth  from 
this  place.  Encouragement  from  this  Study  organ 
ized  an  Association  of  Heads  of  Families  for  the 
promotion  of  Temperance,  and  the  first  name  on  the 
pledge  is  E.  Porter ;  the  six  following  names  are  of 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  81 

Professors  and  resident  Trustees.  Moreover,  about 
this  time  there  was  a  consultation  at  this  Study 
which  resulted  in  the  formation  at  Boston  of  the 
American  Temperance  Society. 

"More  recently,  while  occupying  this  Study  ot 
hallowed  memories,  he  (Dr.  Edwards)  determined  to 
devote  himself  to  promoting  a  better  observance  of 
the  Sabbath.  After  laboring  only  two  and  a  half 
years  he  witnessed,  as  the  result  mainly  of  his  influence 
and  efforts,  a  National  Sabbath  Convention  of  seven 
teen  hundred  delegates  from  eleven  different  States, 
presided  over  by  an  ex-President  of  the  Union,  John 
Quincy  Adams." 

Imagine  entering  this  august  Study  a  delicate  little 
girl,  three  years  old,  with  dark-brown  hair,  large  blue 
eyes,  a  rather  long  thin  nose,  and  a  mobile  mouth 
never  at  rest  —  under  one  arm  a  kitten  with  a  pink 
libbon  tied  round  its  neck,  under  the  other  a  large  doll 
(Miss  Annie)  elegantly  attired  in  clothes  of  unrivalled 
splendor,  a  lamb  with  a  blue  ribbon  half  hidden 
amid  its  wool  following  her,  and  you  have  Elizabeth 
Stuart  Phelps  when  she  made  her  first  appearance  In 
her  present  home. 

What  cares  the  child  for  all  the  wonderful  wealth  of 
association  garnered  in  this  wonderful  Study  ! 


82  Poets'  Homes. 

On  the  sofa  sits  her  mother;  to  reach  her  before  the 
kitten  scratches  her  hand,  or  the  lamb  runs  away,  or 
the  bits  of  splendor  drop  from  Miss  Annie  —  that  is 
all  the  child  wishes. 

Prayer- meetings,  "great  movements  and  influences 
that  have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  world  "  —  perhaps  a 
hallowed  breath  from  them  all  may  be  lingering  here 
still,  and  may  rest  on  this  young  child's  head  in  a 
benison,  who  can  tell  ?  The  only  thing  certain  is  that 
the  kitten,  the  doll,  and  the  lamb,  are  not  what  they 
seem  ;  there  is  a  marvellous  story  to  tell  mother,  —  how 
the  doll  is  a  queen,  and  the  kitten  is  her  child,  and  was 
drownded,  and  the  lamb  was  a  good  man  who  pulled  it 
out  of  the  water,  and  gave  it  some  milk,  and  it  wasn't 
dead  any  more,  and  the  queen  was  glad  and  took  her 
hank'chef  and  wiped  her  tears,  and  put  on  her  best 
gown  and  told  her  child  never  to  be  drownded  again  ; 
so  they  were  happy  all  together  and  have  come  to  see 
their  mother.  And  the  mother,  looking  up  and  smil 
ing,  draws  the  child  to  her,  strokes  the  resuscitated 
kitten,  bestows  words  of  praise  upon  the  valiant  lamb 
and  adjusts  the  flying  splendors  of  "Queen  Anne  "  with 
deft  and  tasteful  fingers. 

The  house  occupied  by  Professor  Phelps  was  orig 
inally  designed  by  Dr.  Griffin,  a  man  of  more  taste 
than  judgment,  at  least  in  house  architecture.  He 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phdps.  83 

received  from  Mr.  Bartlett  —  the  donor  of  tho 
house  —  liberty  to  erect  such  a  dwelling  as  he 
pleased ;  and  with  little  reference  to  climate  or  ex 
pense  he  raised  a  large  edifice,  handsome  and  costlj- 
for  the  times  in  which  it  was  built  — 1812  —  indeed 
handsome  and  costly  now.  The  main  part  of  th » 
house  consisted  of  two  large  rooms  with  a  wide  hal1 
dividing  them.  There  was  a  narrow  hall,  used  parti 
for  closets  and  partly  for  passage  way,  separating  th< 
parlor  from  a  broad,  open  piazza  facing  the  West.  Or, 
the  north  and  souih  ends  of  the  house  were  two  wings 
—  one  was  the  study,  the  other  the  kitchen.  The 
study  was  on  the  southern  side,  a  large,  high  room 
with  six  windows,  opening  to  the  east,  west  and  south, 
and  an  ample  fireplace. 

Transplant  that  room  to  Florida,  and  one  can 
hardly  be  imagined  more  perfect ;  but  for  bleak,  cold 
Andover  hill  one  would  almost  suspect  Dr.  Griffin  to 
have  come  to  a  late  knowledge  of  its  possibilities,  when 
we  read  that  he  resigned  his  professorship  before  the 
house  was  ready  for  his  occupancy.  His  successor, 
an  invalid,  at  once  proceeded  to  diminish  the  propor 
tions  of  the  Study  to  a  livable  size.  He  put  in  a 
partition,  cutting  off  four  windows,  leaving,  how 
ever,  the  book-shelves  with  their  arched  top,  which 


84  Poets  ftomei. 

had  been  builded  into  the  walls.  Thus  it  remains 
until  the  present  day. 

Of  the  room,  as  it  was  when  Professor  Phelps  first 
occupied  it,  I  can  give  you  little  idea.  Coming  into  the 
Professorship,  a  young  man  with  only  a  small  library, 
everything  was  done  that  could  be  to  give  it  the  home 
look  of  a  true  Study.  With  limited  means,  there  could 
be  no  gathering  of  costly  pictures,  statues,  or  even  the 
more  common  luxuries  of  a  well  appointed  library. 
With  his  own  hands  the  Professor  made  some  frames 
of  a  light  wood  to  hold  his  few  engravings ;  but  the  en 
gravings  were  those  of  the  masters,  and  Mrs.  Phelps, 
with  rare  taste  and  skill  in  all  matters  pertaining  to 
house  decoration,  and  trained  from  her  babyhood  to 
feel  that  "  the  study  "  was  to  be  made  the  room  of  the 
house,  worked  assiduously  to  furnish  such  little  articles 
as  give  to  a  room  that  look  of  grace  and  culture  so 
few  can  bestow,  so  many  acknowledge. 

Of  this  mother,  who  died  when  Elizabeth  was 
only  eight  years  old,  much  might  be  said,  but  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  the  few  recollections  of 
her  which  her  child  yet  retains. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  piazza  was  enclosed  and 
made  into  a  large,  inconvenient  dining-room  ;  but 
here,  every  winter  evening,  when  "  the  children's  hour  " 
came  and  the  lamps  were  lighted,  Mrs.  Phelps  took 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phetps.  85 

her  two  little  ones  (there  was  a  brother  three  years 
younger  than  the  girl)  and  read  to  them  from  the  old 
English  poets !  Think  of  these  children  thus  enter 
tained  at  an  age  when  Mother  Goose,  or  at  best  some 
nice,  practical  story  with  a  good  moral,  would  be  con 
sidered  fit  milk  for  such  babes  !  Stories,  too,  their 
mother  told  them  ;  stories  when  they  were  good  and 
when  they  were  naughty,  but  always  classic  stories, 
tinged  deeply  with  old  English  lore. 

It  was  no  wonder  therefore  that  the  little  daughter 
began  early  in  life  to  make  stories  of  her  own. 

The  grounds  surrounding  Professor  Phelps'  house 
are  ample,  and  laid  out  in  keeping  with  the  house. 
There  are  two  gardens,  one  designed  for  the 
culture  of  flowers  and  choice  fruit  trees,  the  other 
for  vegetables.  In  the  lower  there  is  a  summer-house, 
and  here,  more  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world,  was 
the  little  Elizabeth's  home.  It  was,  literally,  a  small, 
square  house,  very  unlike  what  would  be  called 
a  summer  -  house  now ;  but  the  readers  of  her 
juveniles  would  feel  more  sympathy  with  it 
than  with  any  other  of  her  Homes.  Here  she  could 
go  with  her  playmates  and  have  a  world  of  her  own. 
A  square  room  with  two  large  windows  and  a  large 
door  offered  every  convenience  and  temptation  to 
indulge  in  any  recreation  the  fancy  of  the  moment 


S6  Poets'  Homes. 

chose.  Such  dolls'  houses  as  you  might  have  seen, 
with  such  queens  and  kings  and  princes  and  prin 
cesses  ;  such  weddings  and  funerals ;  such  schools 
and  sick  beds  and  nurseries ;  such  mimic  life,  — 
not  that  scholastic  life  which  the  children  saw  every 
day  around  them,  but  a  life  read  of  in  the  story 
books,  or  dreamed  of  in  the  already  affluent  imag 
ination  of  this  young  child.  Her  mother  had  read  to 
her  of  the  Indians  and  of  the  wonderful  discoveries 
that  are  made  by  people  digging  through  mounds,  so 
she  collects  whatever  she  thinks  best  resembles  the 
description  of  those  articles,  and  buries  them  in  a 
corner  of  the  garden  ;  then,  having  roused  her  com 
panions  to  the  proper  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  she  leads 
them  solemnly  to  the  spot  and  tells  them  "  to  dig." 
Imagine  their  astonishment  when  they  unearth  first 
one  article  and  then  another,  until  the  wonders  are 
all  exposed,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  red  men  seem  act 
ually  stirring  in  the  still  air  around  them  ! 

Just  behind  the  vegetable  garden  is  a  large  open 
field  with  a  pretty  little  grove  of  common  forest  trees 
in  one  of  its  corners.  Here  was  another  of  our  little 
heroine's  Homes ;  and  here  the  children  spent  most  of 
the  pleasant  summer  hours.  If  this  grove  could  tell 
tales,  I  should  put  up  my  pen  and  we  would  listen  to  it, 
for  it  knows  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do  what  passed 


-     v 


kllllllHIIEIIIIWW, 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phcips.  89 

under  its  shadows.  It  could  point  out  to  you  the  broad 
branches  upon  which  houses  were  made  with  bits  of 
board ;  where  the  squirrels  were  hunted  to  their  nests, 
and  how  the  little  hands  put  in  rather  than  took  out 
nuts  ;  how  the  boy  was  "  boosted  "  up  long  before  he 
could  climb,  to  explore  a  half  hidden  nook  where  they 
were  sure  birds  were  nesting ;  how  the  girls,  half 
shame-faced,  yet  already  with  a  budding  of  "equality," 
followed  after,  or  else  went  above  him,  daring  him 
from  the  slim  upper  branches  to  come  if  he  could  ; 
and  then,  how  the  three,  with  torn  clothes  and 
scratched  hands  and  faces,  sat  panting  in  some  deep, 
cool  recess  and  rested,  while  the  future  author  peopled 
for  them  the  whole  woods  with  good  and  bad  fairies 
until,  half  scared  by  the  vivid  realities  she  brought, 
they  took  to  flight,  seeking  refuge  among  the  grown 
up  people  of  a  more  real  world. 

When  she  was  eight  years  old  her  mother  died, 
and  the  child's  life  was  changed.  Just  what  it  might 
have  been  had  she  lived,  who  can  tell  ?  Certain  it  is 
that  in  their  tastes  and  aptitudes  they  were  alike. 
The  lonely,  dreamy  childhood  would  no  doubt  have 
been  filled  with  an  active,  perhaps  rigorous,  prepara 
tion  for  the  life's  work. 

For  years,  now,  this  child  followed  nearly  the  bent 
of  her  own  will.  She  was  obedient,  morbidly  consci- 


go  Poets'    Homes. 

entious,  affectionate  and  care-taking  of  those  she  loved. 
Naturally  an  artist  in  its  broadest  sense,  she  was 
always  busy  creating.  As  the  days  of  dolls  and  baby 
houses,  kittens  and  lambs,  went  by,  she  made  her  own 
world,  peopled  it  with  sentimental  and  tender  per 
sonages,  and  passed  through  dramatical  experiences 
as  unique  as  unreal.  In  costume  she  took  espe 
cial  delight,  amusing  herself  by  adjusting  bright 
colors  into  fantastic  dresses,  either  upon  her 
own  slim,  tall  figure,  or  upon  that  of  her  young 
play-fellow.  Color  has  always  been  to  her  a 
source  of  great  enjoyment.  One  of  her  few  remem 
brances  of  her  mother  is  of  this  mother  sitting  at 
work  with  bright  worsteds,  the  shadings  of  which,  as 
they  passed  through  her  thin  fingers,  lose  no  jot  or 
tittle  of  their  brilliancy  as  time  goes  on.  The  years 
of  early  school-girl  life  were,  as  m'ght  have  been  ex 
pected,  not  the  pleasantest  for  such  a  temperament, 
yet  the  girl  learned  easily  and  ranked  high.  It  was 
no  effort  for  her  to  commit  a  lesson,  excepting  in 
Arithmetic. 

But  at  fourteen  years  of  age  a  new  era  in  her  life 
began,  one  to  which  she  looks  back,  as  time  goes  on, 
with  deeper  and  deeper  gratitude. 

The  widow  of  one  of  the  Andover  Professers,  a 
lady  of  original  ability  and  thorough  culture,  opened 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  9 1 

a  school,  and  to  this  the  young  girl  was  sent.  The 
:ourse  of  study  upon  which  she  at  once  entered  was 
thorough  and  marked  by  a  singular  adaptation  to  the 
wants  of  the  pupils.  While  there  was,  of  course,  a 
system,  there  were  generous  and  skilful  departures 
from  it,  in  order  to  meet  the  needs  of  the  different 
minds  under  training.  Psychology  in  its  various 
branches  soon  became  her  favorite  study,  and  she  was 
led  along  its  difficult  and  intricate  paths  with  a  firm, 
utrong  hand,  and  in  a  manner  which  to  this  day  elicits 
!i5r  warmest  admiration.  So  with  English  Literature 
and  the  Fine  Arts.  Of  her  Latin  drilling  Miss  Phelps 
speaks  also  with  sincere  regard,  fully  appreciating 
its  thoroughness,  and  the  skill  which  made  the  dead 
a  living  language  to  her. 

"In  short,"  she  says,  "with  the  sole  exception  of 
Greek  and  the  higher  mathematics,  we  pursued  the 
same  curriculum  as  our  brothers  in  college."  Excel 
lent  tutoring,  this,  as  will  readily  be  seen,  for  the  life's 
work  before  her.  At  nineteen,  the  ordinary  modes  of 
education  having  been  followed  and  a  rather  extraordi 
nary  result  obtained,  she  began  the  work  which  she  has 
since  so  successfully  carried  on.  So  far  she  had  clung  to 
her  Andover  home  and  her  Andover  life.  Beyond  that 
house  which  Dr.  Griffin  had  built,  that  Study  of  won 
derful  memories,  those  ample  grounds  growing  every 


92  Poets'   Homes. 

year  more  and  more  enchanting  under  her  father's 
tasteful  care,  the  old  summer-house  (by  turns  her  stu 
dio,  her  study,  her  parlor  and  best  resting-place),  the 
grove,  peopled  now  by  memories  instead  of  fairies, 
she  had  no  world  and  no  wish  to  find  one.  Delicate 
in  health,  she  could  not  be  induced  to  exchange  the 
monotony  of  a  very  monotonous  scholastic  life  for 
any  other ;  and  therefore,  when  most  young  ladies 
would  have  been  intent  on  the  enchantments  of  the 
"  coming  out,"  she  turned  to  writing  stories  and  books 
for  occupation.  Would  you  like  a  glimpse  into  the 
room  where  she  wrote  the  "  Trotty  "  and  the  "  Gipsy" 
books,  beside  many  shorter  stories,  all  of  which  I 
presume  the  most  of  our  young  people  have  read 
without  knowing  to  whom  they  were  indebted  for  them  ? 
This  room  was  a  longTiarrow  chamber  built  over  that 
dining-room  where  the  child  first  received  her  lessons 
in  English  Literature  from  her  mother.  Its  one  west 
ern  window  looks  out  upon  a  view  seldom  equalled  in 
New  England.  Just  below  it  lies  the  summer-house, 
the  terraced  gardens,  and  in  the  soft  meadow  next 
them  the  beloved  grove;  beyond  these  stretched  a 
broad,  mountain-broken  horizon  behind  which  the 
sun  sets  in  a  glory  with  which  Italy's  skies  can 
hardly  vie.  Writing  of  a  visit  to  Andover,  and  of 
this  scenery,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says  :  "  Fai 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  95 

o  the  north  and  west  the  mountains  of  New  Hamp 
shire  lifted  their  summits  in  a  long,  encircling  range 
)f  pale  blue  waves.  The  day  was  clear  and  every 
nound  and  peak  traced  its  outline  with  perfect  defini 
ion  against  tue  sky.  Monadnock,  Kearsarge,  —  what 
nemories  that  name  recalls! — and  the  others,  the 
dateless  pyramids  of  New  England,  the  eternal  monu- 
nents  of  her  ancient  rule,  around  which  cluster  the 
lomes  of  so  many  of  her  bravest  and  hardiest  children. 
[  can  never  look  at  them  without  feeling,  vast  and 
•emote  and  awful  as  they  are,  there  is  a  kind  of  in- 
vard  heat  and  muffled  throb  in  their  stony  cores  that 
>rings  them  into  a  vague  sort  of  sympathy  with  human 
icarts.  It  is  more  than  a  year  since  I  have  looked  on 
:hose  blue  mountains,  and  they  '  are  to  me  as  a 
'eeling'  now  and  have  been  ever  since." 

That  they  have  always  been  to  Miss  Phelps  "  as  a 
:eeling  "  from  her  earliest  childhood,  no  one  familiar 
jvith  the  love  of  nature  inwrought  into  her  writings 
:an  doubt. 

The  room  was  simply  furnished,  but  in  it,  more 
:han  in  any  other  of  her  Homes,  were  garnered  the 
treasures  we  prize  so  highly  when  we  stand,  tip-toed 
and  eager-eyed,  waiting  for  the  lifting  of  the  veil  that 
separates  childhood  from  maidenhood.  In  this  room 


96  Poefs  Homes. 

hung  the  chromo  of  the  "  Immaculate  Conception,    of 
which  she  writes  thus  : 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  why  I  chose 

This  single- windowed  little  room 
Where  only  at  the  even-fall 

A  moment's  space,  the  sunlight's  bloom 

Shall  open  out  before  the  face 

I  prize  so  dear ;  I  think,  indeed, 
There's  something  of  a  whim  in  that, 

And  something  of  a  certain  need. 

I  could  not  make  you  understand 

That  solitude  which  sickness  gives 
To  take  in  somewhat  solemn  guise 

The  blessings  that  enrich  our  lives. 

I  like  to  watch  the  late,  soft  light,  — 

No  spirit  could  more  softly  come  ; 
The  picture  is  the  only  thing 

It  touches  in  the  darkening  room. 

I  wonder  if  to  her  indeed, 

The  maiden  of  the  spotless  name, 
In  holier  guise  or  tenderer  touch 

The  annunciating  angel  came. 

Madonna  Mary  !     Here  she  lives ! 

See  how  my  sun  has  wrapped  her  in  I 
O  solemn  sun  !     O  maiden  face  ! 

O  joy  that  never  knoweth  sin  — 

How  shall  I  name  thee  ?     How  express 

The  thoughts  that  unto  thee  belong  ? 
Sometimes  a  sigh  interprets  them, 

At  other  times,  perhaps,  a  song  ; 


Elizabeth  Stuart  fnelps.  97 

More  often  still  it  chanceth  me 

They  grow  and  group  into  a  prayer 
That  guards  me  down  my  sleepless  hours, 

A  sentry  in  the  midnight  air. 

But  when  the  morning's  monotone 

Begins,  of  sickness  or  of  pain, 
They  catch  the  key  and,  striking  it, 

They  turn  into  a  song  again." 

There  she  wrote  "  Gates  Ajar ; "  but  not  long  after 
the  publication  of  that  book  she  found  it  necessary  to 
make  some  changes  in  her  mode  of  life  which  would 
give  her  hopes  of  firmer  health  and  more  quiet  in 
which  to  pursue  her  literary  work.  The  summers  she 
spent  at  the  seaside, — East  Gloucester,  after  a  few  trials 
of  other  places,  being  her  chosen  resort ;  and  her  win 
ter  Study  was  removed  from  her  father's  house  to  the 
next  door  neighbor's  where  she  spends  the  working 
hours  of  the  day,  "  having  learned,"  she  says,  "  like 
the  ministers  who  study  in  their  churches,  or  the 
carpenters  who  go  to  their  benches,  the  value  of  a 
workshop  out  of  the  house." 

This  house  is  one  of  the  oldest  on  Andover  Hill 
and  its  history  would  be  a  perfect  .epitome  of  the  pe 
culiar  life  of  a  secluded  New  England  literary  town. 
It  has  been  occupied  in  turn  by  Professors,  Trustees, 
Agents,  Commons,  Stewards.  Farmers,  yet  has  retained 
a  character  of  its  own  through  all  the  changes. 


98  Poets'   Homes. 

It  is  a  long,  low,  extremely  plain  house,  painted 
white,  with  plenty  of  little  narrow  windows  filled  with 
little  green  panes  of  glass.  Miss  Phelps'  Study  is  the 
southeast  corner  chamber.  It  has  two  windows  front 
ing  to  the  east  and  to  the  three  brick  Andover  Theo 
logical  Seminaries.  The  broad  gravel  walk  leading 
to  the  old  chapel  with  its  fine  avenue  of  trees  Is  di 
rectly  before  them,  and  the  Library  with  its  half  med 
ieval  walls  is  on  one  side,  with  the  new  chapel  on 
the  other.  All  the  day  the  sun  shines  in  as  cheer 
fully  as  it  can,  struggling  through  those  little  win 
dows  and  those  little  panes.  There  are  subdued 
green  curtains  at  these  windows ;  and  about  the 
room  are  books,  pictures,  a  few  easy  chairs,  tables, 
and  many  of  the  nothings  which  make  a  study  pleas 
ant. 

Here,  Miss  Phelps  has  written  all  her  later  books. 
It  is  a  quaint,  old-time  room,  with  big  beams  coming 
down  from  the  ceiling,  from  which  a  hammock  is  al 
ways  suspended,  and  beams  coming  out  of  the  cor 
ners  which  are  convenient  for  out-of-the-way  be 
longings;  and  here,  on  the  southern  broad  window 
sill,  lies  constantly  her  blue  Skye-and-King-Charles 
terrier,  "  Daniel  Deronda."  Miss  Phelps  has  centered 
all  her  early  love  for  pets  in  devotion  to  dogs.  Cu 
rious  stories  might  be  told  of  her  fondness  for  a  lost 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


99 


dog,  named  Hahnnemann,  and  his  love  for  her,  did  the 
limits  of  this  article  allow;  but  a  sketch  of  her 
homes  would  be  incomplete  did  not  "  Dan "  take 


"DANIEL  DERONDA." 


his  place  as  a  prominent  figure.  Dan  is  not  bigger 
than  a  medium  sized  cat,  and  is  altogether,  as  some 
one  remarked,  "  so  homely  that  he  is  almost  hand 
some."  Indeed  he  seems  to  affect  people  facetiously 


ioo  Poets1    Homes. 

and  to  occasion  a  sort  of  humor  which  would  alone 
give  him  a  right  to  live.  "  That  dorg,  "  said  an  Irish 
man  pointing  to  him  with  a  broad  smile  on  his  red  face, 
"  came  jist  near  being  no  dorg  at  all."  But,  little  as 
he  is,  he  has  for  his  mistress,  one  of  the  biggest  of 
hearts.  His  bark  of  delight  when  he  finds  her.  after 
a  short  separation  is  touching  to  hear,  and  his  jeal 
ous  and  chivalric  care  of  her  is  ludicrous  in  the 
extreme.  Sitting  on  his  small  haunches,  he  boldly 
defies  the  world  to  molest  her,  and  has  been  known 
to  attack  a  dog  ten  times  his  size,  when  he  thought 
l:he  Newfoundland's  approach  meant  evil.  Noble  lit 
tle  bit  of  a  Dan  !  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he 
could  teach  lessons  of  reverence,  fidelity  and  love,  for 
the  learning  of  which  the  whole  human  race  would 
I  ie  better. 

Miss  Phelp's  Andover  home,  however,  remains 
with  her  father  and  step-mother,  the  value  of  whose 
kind  friendship  many  years  have  tested. 

The  situation  of  her  summer  home  at  Gloucester 
can  find  no  more  fitting  description  than  the  one  Miss 
Phelps  has  herself  given  in  her  story,  "  The  Voyage 
of  the  America."  Writing  upon  the  view  of  the 
rocks  on  which  her  house  stands,  she  says : 

"  Upon  the  rich  and  tortured  hues  which  the  beating 
water  and  the  bursting  fire  opened  for  my  pleasure 


Elizabeth  Stuart  1 "helps.  101 

ages  ago,  falls  the  liquid  August  sunlight  as  only 
Gloucester  sunlight  falls,  I  think,  the  wide  world  over. 
Through  it  the  harbor  widens,  gladdens  to  the  sea ; 
the  tide  beats  at  my  feet  a  mighty  pulse,  slow, 
even,  healthy  and  serene.  The  near  waves  curve 
and  break  in  quiet  colors  across  the  harbor's 
width  ;  they  deepen  and  purple  if  one  can  place 
the  blaze  of  the  climbing  sun  upon  them.  A 
shred  or  two  of  foam  curling  lightly  against  the  cliff  I 
of  the  western  shore  whispers  that  far  across  tha 
broad  arm  of  the  Point  the  sleeping  east  wind  hai 
reared  his  head  to  look  the  harbor  over.  Beneatl) 
the  bright  shade  of  mahy-hued  sun-umbrellas  th» 
dories  of  the  pleasure  people  tilt  daintily.  At  thi 
distance  of  nearly  two  miles,  the  harbor's  width,  I  can 
see  the  glitter  of  the  cunners,  caught  sharply  from  the 
purple  water,  as  well  as  the  lithe,  light  drawing  of  a 
lady's  hand  over  the  boat's  side  against  the  idle  tide. 
All  abng  the  lee  shore,  from  the  little  reef,  Black 
Bess,  to  the  busy  town,  the  buoys  of  the  mackerel 
nets  bob  sleepily ;  in  and  out  among  them, with  the 
look  of  men  who  have  toiled  all  night  and  taken 
nothing,  glide  the  mackerel  fishers,  peaceful  and  poor. 
The  channel  where  the  wind  has  freshened  now  is 
full.  The  lumber  schooner  is  there  from  Machias, 
the  coal  bark  bound  for  Boston,  the  fishing  sloop 


IO2  Poets'  Homes. 

headed  to  the  Banks.  The  water  boat  trips  up  and 
down  on  a  supply  tour.  A  revenue  cutter  steams  out 
and  in  importantly.  The  government  lighter  struts 
by.  A  flock  of  little  pleasure  sails  fly  past  the  New 
York  school  ship,  peering  up  at  her  like  curious  ca 
naries  at  a  solemn  watch-dog.  A  sombre  old  pilot- 
boat,  indifferent  to  all  the  world,  puts  in  to  get  her 
dinner  after  her  morning's  work,  and  the  heavily 
weighted  salt  sloop  tacks  to  clear  the  Boston  steamer 
turning  Norman's  Woe.  And  Norman's  Woe !  the 
fair,  the  cruel,  —  the  woe  of  song  and  history,  —  can 
it  ever  have  been  a  terror  ?  Now  it  is  a  trance.  Be 
hind  is  the  Hendsa  greens  of  the  rich  inhabited  shore 
closing  up  softly  ;  upon  it  the  full  light  falls  ;  the  jag-^ 
ged  teeth  of  the  bared  rock  round  smoothly  in  the 
pleasant  air,  the  colors  known  to  artists  as  orange 
chrome  and  yellow  ocher  and  burnt  Sienna  caress 
each  other  to  make  the  reef  a  warm  and  gentle  tiling. 
Beyond  it  stirs  the  busy  sea.  The  day  falls  so  fair 
that  half  the  commerce  of  Massachusetts  seems 
to  be  alive  on  its  happy  heart.  The  sails  swarm  like 
silver  bees.  The  black  hulls  start  sharply  from  the 
water  line,  and  look  round  and  full,  like  embossed 
designs,  against  the  delicate  sky.  It  is  one  of  the 
silver  days,  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  dwellers  by  the 
shore,  when  every  detail  in  the  distance  is  magnified 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps.  105 

and  sharp.  I  can  see  the  thin  fine  line  of  departing 
mast  heads  far,  far,  far,  till  they  dip  and  utterly  meet. 
Half  Way  Rock,  —  half  way  to  Boston  from  my  lava 
gorge, —  rises  clear-cut  and  vivid  to  the  unaided  eye  as 
if  brought  within  arm's  length  by  a  powerful  glass. 
And  there  the  curved  arm  of  Salem  shore  stretches 
out,  and  Marblehead  turns  her  fair  neck  towards  us ; 
in  the  faint  violet  tinge  of  the  outlines  I  can  see  pale 
specks  where  houses  cluster  thickly.  Beyond  them 
all,  across  the  flutter  of  uncounted  sails  which  fly, 
which  glide,  which  creep,  which  pass  and  repass,  wind 
and  interwind,  which  dare  me  to  number  them,  and 
defy  me  to  escape  them — dim  as  a  dream,  and  fair 
as  a  fancy,  I  can  distinctly  see  the  long,  low,  gray 
outline  of  Cape  Cod." 

The  house  itself  is  built  upon  a  lot  of  greensward 
which  runs  down  amid  some  great,  beetling  rocks.  It 
is  the  cunningest  nook  in  all  the  world  to  hold  the 
home  of  one  who  loves  the  sea  —  you  feel  inclined  to 
apply  to  it  Miss  Phelps  own  words  : 

"  If  it  might  only  be 

That  on  the  singing  sea 

There  were  a  place  for  you  to  creep 

Away  among  the  tinted  weeds  and  sleep, 

A  cradled,  curtained  place  for  two. 

You  would  choose  just  this,  and  no  other. 


io6  Poets'     Homes. 

it  is  a  two  story  brown  cottage,  with  doors  and 
windows  opening  out  upon  a  piazza,  which  is  built 
across  the  side  facing  the  sea. 

Upon  the  interior  Miss  Phelps  has  bestowed  much 
of  the  peculiar  artistic  taste,  which  distinguishes  her. 
The  parlor  is  a  long  narrow  room  tinted  with  a  deli 
cate  green  shade,  not  a  sea  green,  but  the  green  one 
catches  in  the  opal  of  a  wave  as  the  sunset  lights  it. 

In  the  other  rooms  of  the  house  the  same  taste  has 
directed  that  one  should  be  rose  pink,  another  robin's 
egg  blue,  another  delicate  shades  of  buff  and  brown, 
another  the  native  colors  of  the  wood. 

The  house  is  filled  with  the  remembrances  of  those 
who  love  her ;  and,  with  the  books  and  pictures  that 
she  loves  and  with  the  constant  society  and  sympathy 
of  friends,  the  lady  whom  you  know  as  the  author  of 
"Gates  Ajar"  and  "The  Story  of  Avis"  here  draws 
into  her  quiet  days  and  invalid  life  the  courage  and 
the  calm  of  the  summer  sea. 

I  cannot  close  this  sketch  more  happily  than  by 
quoting  from  her  "  Saturday  Night  in  the  Harbor  : " 

"  The  boats  bound  in  across  the  bar, 
Seen  in  fair  colors  from  afar, 
Grown  to  dun  colors,  strong  and  near, 
Their  very  shadows  seem  to  fear 
The  shadows  of  a  week  of  harms, 
The  memory  of  a  week's  alarms, 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 

And  quiver  like  a  happy  sigh 
As  ship  and  shadow  drifting  by 
Glide  o'er  the  harbor's  peaceful  face 
Each  to  its  Sabbath  resting-place. 

And  some  like  weary  children  come 
With  sobbing  sails,  half  sick  for  home  ; 
And  some,  like  lovers'  thoughts,  to  meet 
The  velvet  shore,  spring  daring,  sweet ; 
And  some,  reluctant,  in  the  shade 
The  great  reef  drops,  like  souls  afraid 
Creep  sadly  in ;  against  the  shore 
Ship  into  shadow  turneth  more 
And  more.    Ship,  ocean,  shadow,  shore. 
Part  not,  nor  stir  foreveraore." 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

WHEN  William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born,  Byroi 
was  an  active  little  fellow,  six  years  old  , 
Shelley  was  learning  to  walk ;  the  young  Words 
worth,  in  the  depths  of  poverty,  had  contrived  to 
bring  out  two  thin  volumes  of  poetry,  bearing  the 
stilted  titles  of  "  The  Evening  Walk,  Addresses  to  a 
Young  Lady,"  and  "  Descriptive  Sketches  taken  dur 
ing  a  Tour  through  the  Alps  ; "  Walter  Scott  was 
studying  German,  and  thinking  of  publishing,  as  his 
first  book,  a  couple  of  translations  from  that  lan 
guage;  Coleridge  was  selling  his  manuscript  poems 
to  a  generous  friend  ;  Lamb  was  happy  over  the  get- 
ing  of  a  desk  in  the  East  India  house ;  and  Goethe 
was  writing  the  closing  chapter  of  "  Wilhelm  Meis- 
108 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  ill 

ten"  Washington  was  President  of  the  United 
States ;  Alexander  Hamilton  was  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury ;  Aaron  Burr  was  in  the  Senate ;  young 
Andrew  Jackson,  having  married  Rachel  Donelson, 
was  practising  law  in  Nashville  ;  John  Quincy  Adams 
was  beginning  his  political  career  as  minister  to  Hol 
land  ;  Jefferson,  deeming  his  public  life  at  an  end, 
was  cultivating  his  Monticello  farm  ;  and  the  whole 
country  was  still  mourning  the  recent  death  of 
Franklin ;  while  abroad,  George  the  Third  sat 
on  the  English  throne ;  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
a  young  Corsican  officer,  had  just  attracted  no  little 
attention  by  his  brilliant  reduction  of  Toulon. 
There  is  no  need  to  say,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Bry 
ant's  literary  life,  beginning  in  1804  and  ending  in 
1878,  was  virtually  contemporary  with  the  whole 
growth  of  American  literature.  Of  all  our  eight 
thousand  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  periodicals, 
not  a  dozen  were  published  in  1794,  the  year  of  Mr. 
Bryant's  birth.  Surely  an  author  who  was  the  senior 
of  seven  presidents  of  the  United  States,  and  whose 
literary  career  in  New  York  alone  was  uninterrupted 
from  1826  to  1878,  might  fairly  be  called  a  living  his 
tory  of  American  letters.  Only  Richard  Henry 
Dana,  Senior,  of  all  our  surviving  poets,  was  born 
before  Mr.  Bryant ;  but  the  latter,  unlike  his  Massa- 


112  Poets'   Homes. 

chusetts  friend,  who  has  long  lived  in  retirement,  was 
an  active  worker  up  to  the  day  of  his  death  in  that 
most  perfunctory  and  imperious  of  literary  pursuits, 
the  editing  of  a  daily  newspaper. 

William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born  in  Cummington, 
Massachusetts,  in  1794.  Cummington,  a  little  Hamp 
shire  County  town,  was  a  small  village  then,  and  to 
day  it  contains  barely  a  thousand  inhabitants.  But, 
besides  giving  birth  to  Bryant,  it  is  proud  to  number 
among  its  natives  Luther  Bradish,  a  New  York  poli 
tician  of  note,  in  his  time,  and  Henry  L.  Dawes,  one 
of  the  present  senators  from  Massachusetts.  There 
seems  to  be  something  in  its  fresh  mountain  air  favor 
able  to  longevity;  for  the  Rev.  Dr.  Snell,  one  of 
Cummington's  sons,  baptized  and  buried  the  people 
of  North  Brookfield,  Massachusetts,  for  the  space  of 
sixty-four  years. 

The  scenery  of  Cummington,  with  its  nooks  and 
fields,  and  dashing  Westfield  river,  gave  the  boy 
Bryant  his  first  liking  for,  and  knowledge  of,  Nature. 
His  father,  Dr.  Luther  Bryant,  the  village  physician, 
was  both  guide  and  friend,  teaching  his  little  son  how 
to  think  wisely  and  how  to  write  well,  as  well  as  lead 
ing  him  through  the  natural  scenery  which  became 
almost  a  part  of  his  very  self.  What  was  his  father's 
nature,  and  what  the  value  of  his  teachings,  Mr. 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  115 

Bryant  has  told  us  in  more  than  one  poem.     This  is 
from  the  "  Hymn  to  Death : " 

"  He  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life    offered    me  to   the 
muses.  •-•••• 

When  the  earth 

Received  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes, 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned  pale 
When  thou  wert  gone. 

This  faltering  verse,  which  thou 
Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave, —  this,  and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example." 

"O'erlook,"  in  this  quotation,  is  an  unfortunate 
word  ;  but  to  supervise,  and  not  to  pass  by,  is  its 
evident  meaning.  This  "  Hymn  to  Death  "  was  not 
written  until  1825.  Two  years  later,  Bryant  men 
tioned  his  father  and  his  loved  sister  in  equally  affec 
tionate  language : 

"  Then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave,—  the  beautiful  and  young." 

Similar  fervent  tributes  to  their  fathers,  to  whom 
they  felt  that  they  owed  an  equal  debt,  have  been 


u6  Poets'  Homes. 

paid  by  other  famous  American   poets ;  notably  by 
Holmes  in  the  lines  ending  : 

"  Now,  from  the  borders  of  the  silent  sea, 
Take  my  last  tribute  ere  I  cross  to  thee  ! " 

It  was  well  that  Dr.  Bryant  exercised  a  critic's 
wisdom  in  pointing  out  his  son's  defects  of  style,  and 
physician's  discretion  in  caring  for  his  health ;  for 
the  boy  was  writing  verses  at  the  age  of  nine,  and  at 
ten  saw  one  of  his  poems  printed  in  a  local  news 
paper.  Those  were  stirring  political  times,  from 
1805  to  1815,  and  the  young  poet's  thoughts,  as  he 
grew  into  his  teens,  turned  to  national  subjects. 
"The  Embargo,"  by  Bryant,  appeared  in  1809,  and 
very  accurately  reflected  the  hatred  commonly  felt  in 
New  England  toward  the  prevailing  policy  of  the 
national  administration.  The  little  volume  which 
contained  this  vigorous  piece  of  satire  was  printed  in 
Boston  at  Dr.  Bryant's  expense.  It  contained  a  few 
general  poems  —  an  ode  to  the  Connecticut  river  and 
a  poem  on  Drought,  among  others.  These  two  are 
wonderful  pieces  for  a  boy  of  fifteen  to  write,  though 
to  the  reader  of  to-day  they  seem  like  clever  parodies 
of  the  poet's  maturer  style.  Probably  the  records  of 
literary  precocity  from  the  days  of  Chatterton  down 
to  little  Lucy  Bull  and  the  Goodale  sisters  have  never 
shown  a  more  remarkable  example. 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  117 

The  poem  of  "  Thanatopsis  "  was  written  in  Cum- 
mington  when  Bryant  was  in  his  nineteenth  year,  and 
in  18 1 6  it  was  published  in  The  North  American  Re 
view.  That  periodical  would  now  seem  the  last  place 
in  which  to  look  for  poetry.  But  it  had  been  started 
in  1815,  the  year  before  it  printed  "  Thanatopsis,"  as 
a  bi-monthly  magazine,  devoted  to  articles  in  general 
literature,  as  well  as  the  reviews  and  political  papers 
to  which  it  afterwards  gave  up  the  whole  of  its  space. 
As  first  printed,  "  Thanatopsis "  was  somewhat 
shorter  than  in  its  present  form ;  and  the  author 
afterwards  changed  a  few  expressions.  When  the 
poem  was  sent  to  the  office  of  the  Review,  that  peri 
odical  was  conducted  by  a  club,  of  which  R.  H.  Dana 
was  chairman  for  the  time  being.  With  it  was  sub 
mitted  the  lines  afterward  called  an  "  Inscription  on 
the  Entrance  to  a  Wood.''  Somehow,  Dana  got  the 
impression  that  "  Thanatopsis  "  was  written  by  the 
young  poet's  father,  Dr.  Bryant,  then  a  member  of 
the  State  Senate.  So  he  ran  over  to  the  State-house 
to  see  how  the  author  of  so  notable  a  production 
looked.  He  was  disappointed  in  his  search  for  partic 
ular  evidences  of  poetical  ability  in  the  face  ;  but  he 
did  not  learn  of  his  mistake  until  1821,  when  the  real 
author  went  to  Cambridge  to  deliver  his  poem  of 
"  The  Ages  "  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society  of 


n8  Poets'  Homes. 

Harvard  University.  For  five  years,  therefore,  The 
North  American  Review  was  ignorant  of  the  author 
ship  of  the  most  famous  article  it  ever  printed. 

Though  the  majority  of  Mr.  Bryant's  long  literary 
life  was  spent  in  and  near  New  York,  Massachusetts 
may  fairly  be  called  his  literary  home.  He  was  the 
poet  of  Nature,  and  the  Nature  of  his  poems  is  that 
which  smiles  across  New  England  meadows  or  frowns 
behind  New  England  hills.  Not  until  he  was  thirty- 
two  years  old  did  he  leave  western  Massachusetts. 
In  1810  he  entered  Williams  College.  Williamstown, 
the  seat  of  the  college,  lies  in  the  northern  part  of 
Berkshire  county,  in  the  midst  of  the  peerless  hills 
and  the  bold  scenery  which  have  made  the  region 
famous.  At  Williams,  Bryant  did  not  graduate, 
though  the  college  was  afterwards  proud  to  give  him 
his  bachelor's  degree.  Oddly  enough,  this  was  also 
the  experience  of  the  venerable  Dana  at  Harvard. 
After  practising  law  a  brief  time  in  little  Plainfield, 
also  in  western  Massachusetts,  Mr.  Bryant  returned 
to  Berkshire  and  settled  in  Great  Barrington,  which 
was  his  home  for  ten  years.  That  town,  by  its  situa 
tion  and  scenery,  doubtless  influenced  his  poetry 
more  than  any  other  of  his  places  of  residences. 

Great  Barrington  is  a  fit  home  for  a  poet.  The 
gentle  Housatonic  River,  having  idly  passed  by 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  121 

^enox  and  Southbridge,  saunters  through  green  mead- 
>ws  and  hides  beneath  dark  hills  until  it  reaches 
Sheffield,  a  few  miles  below.  To  the  north,  rugged 
md  forbidding,  rises  Monument  Mountain,  famous  for 
hat  wild  leap  of  the  Indian  girl  which  forms  the  sub- 
ect  of  one  of  Bryant's  finest  poems.  Toward  Egre- 
nont  on  the  west  and  New  Marlboro  on  the  east,  the 
country  roads  ascend  gently  sloping  hills.  The  town 
tself  lies  half  hidden  beneath  tall  elms  that  seem  to 
;hare  the  river's  calm. 

In  Bryant's  time,  the  green  growth  of  grass  and 
eaves  was  less  disturbed  than  now ;  but,  even  to 
day,  one  may  easily  see  what  inspiration  surrounded 
:he  poet.  The  modern  visitor  needs  But  to  walk  from 
:he  gray  Episcopal  church  to  the  silent  graveyard  at 
the  southern  end  of  the  village.  This  walk  beneath 
generous  elms,  the  path  now  skirting  the  street  and 
now  climbing  the  hill  above,  is  enough  to  make  the 
dullest  observer  think  poetry  even  if  he  cannot  write 
it. 

In  1825  Mr,  Bryant  removed  to  New  York,  having 
concluded,  as  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  other  famous 
poets  have  done,  to  abandon  law  for  literature.  He 
had  accumulated  quite  a  number  of  poems,  for  so  fas 
tidious  a  writer,  in  his  Great  Barrington  residence  ; 
and  when,  on  his  removal,  he  assumed  the  editorship 


122  Poets'  Homes. 

of  The  New  York  Review  and  Athentzum  Magazint 
(  afterwards  called  The  United  States  Review  and  Lit 
erary  Gazette}  he  was  able  to  produce  several  fine 
pieces  in  rapid  succession,  among  which  were  "  The 
Death  of  the  Flowers,"  "  The  Indian  Girl's  Lament," 
and  "The  African  Chief."  Under  Bryant's  editor 
ship,  this  monthly  also  contained  the  new  poems  of 
Dana,  R.  C.  Sands  and  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  whose 
"  Marco  Bozzaris  "  first  appeared  in  its  pages. 

Between  1827  and  1830  appeared  three  issues  of 
"  The  Talisman,"  a  literary  annual  of  the  fashion 
once  so  popular  both  in  this  country  and  in  England. 

It  was  by  far  the  best  work  of  its  kind ;  and,  to  this 
day,  its  neat  littfe  volumes  with  their  green  sides,  gilt 
tops,  clear  type  and  delicate  steel-engravings,  are  the 
aristocrats  of  the  old  book  stands. 

"  The  Talisman  "  was  wholly  written  by  Bryant, 
Gulian  C.  Verplanck  and  Robert  C.  Sands,  Ver- 
planck  writing  about  half  of  the  whole.  Bryant's 
prose  contributions  to  it  are  especially  worth  hunting 
out  by  the  curious.  They  are  written  in  the  finished 
style  of  the  "  Knickerbocker  School,"  —  a  style  sug 
gesting  comfort  and  sober  luxury  both  in  literature 
and  life ;  and  they  are  noted  for  the  delicacy  of  their 
humor.  Not  every  modern  reader  knows  that  Bryant 
could  write  a  forcible  and  interesting  prose  story  ;  but 


William  Cullen   Bryant.  123 

ais  few  writings  in  that  line  are  really  worth  compari 
son  with  the  tales  of  Irving. 

But  the  greater  part  of  Mr.  Bryant's  prose  appeared 
.n  The  Evening  Post  of  New  York,  upon  which  he 
Look  an  editorial  position  in  1826,  and  with  which  he 
was  connected  up  to  the  day  of  his  death.  A  daily 
paper,  twenty-four  hours  after  its  issue,  is  a  poor 
dead  thing  ;  but  neither  its  ephemeral  value  nor  its 
inexorable  demands  discouraged  the  active  pen  of 
the  veteran  editor.  Mr.  Bryant  willingly  put  the 
same  care  and  honesty  into  a  perishable  editorial 
which  he  bestowed  upon  a  poem.  In  a  long  run  this 
faithfulness  tells  ;  and  to  it  is  largely  due  the  solid 
reputation  and  influence  of  the  paper  he  built  up. 

The  whole  body  of  Mr.  Bryant's  writings,  aside 
from  his  uncollected  editorial  work,  is  not  large. 
One  volume  of  moderate  size  contains  all  his  poems  ; 
his  books  of  travel  he  did  not  care  to  retain  in  print ; 
and  a  very  small  corner  of  the  shelf  contained  all  his 
books  until  the  appearance  of  his  translations  of  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssy,  and  the  stately  first  volume  of  the 
History  of  the  United  States,  which  he  began  to  pre 
pare  with  the  aid  of  Sidney  Howard  Gray. 

Like  Gray  and  Collins,  Bryant  chose  to  write  little 
and  to  write  well.  He  was  always  a  stern  critic  of 
his  own  work  and  did  not  hesitate  to  change  his  man- 


124  Poets'   Homes. 

uscript  after  it  had  left  his  hands.  Some  stanzas 
which  did  not  quite  suit  him  would  say  themselves 
over  and  over  again  until  the  right  word  or  phrase 
came  at  last,  and  the  correction  was  made.  But  this 
revision  was,  for  the  most  part,  before  publication ; 
for  when  one  of  Bryant's  poems  was  printed  its  au 
thor,  as  a  rule,  permitted  it  to  stand. 

It  is  said  that  Mr.  Bryant  hardly  shared  the  popu 
lar  opinion  that  "  Thanatopsis "  is  the  best  of  his 
poems ;  nor  was  it  unnatural  that  he  should  resent 
the  ill-considered  praise  of  those  who  did  not  seem 
to  know  that  he  wrote  anything  in  the  sixty-three  years 
since  the  appearance  of  his  famous  meditation  on 
death. 

The  William  Cullen  Bryant  of  1878,  up  to  the  very 
day  of  his  fatal  attack  last  May,  was  one  of  the  most 
familiar  figures  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  His  hair 
and  beard  were  snowy  white,  and  his  overhanging 
eye-brows  and  deep-set  eyes  gave  him  an  air  of  in 
tense  thought.  Not  even  Longfellow  or  Walt  Whit 
man  so  closely  resembled  some  Greek  philosopher. 

In  one  sense  Bryant,  in  his  later  years,  seemed  far 
younger  than  he  was  ;  in  another,  one  might  readily 
fancy  that  he  had  lived  for  centuries.  A  man  of  so 
reverend  appearance  seems  almost  independent  of 
time.  His  striking  face  has  always  been  a  great  fa- 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  127 

orite  with  photographers  and  artists  in  crayon.  Per- 
ons  who  had  only  seen  his  portraits  were  apt  to  be 
isappointed  when  they  met  him,  to  see  no  more  mas- 
ive  a  figure.  But  Mr.  Bryant,  though  slight  and  lat- 
5rly  somewhat  bent  with  years,  had  none  of  the  un- 
hapeliness  or  haggardness  of  old  age,  and  his  port 
/as  a  pleasure  to  see. 

It  is  pretty  hard  to  give  the  outside  of  a  New  York 
louse  any  of  the  characteristic  attractiveness  which 
o  soon  becomes  apparent  in  an  author's  home  in  a 
:ountry  town.  In  the  city  nearly  every  house  is  like 
ts  next  neighbor,  and  only  its  interior  becomes  at  all 
ndividual. 

For  some  years  Mr.  Bryant's  city  home  was  num- 
>er  twenty-four  West  Sixteenth  Street,  between  Un- 
on  Square  and  the  College  and  Church  of  St.  Fran- 
:is  Xavier.  As  it  was  entirely  unpretentious  without, 
;o  it  was  handsome  rather  than  splendid  within.  It 
vas  a  home,  not  a  mere  house ;  and  it  was  filled  with 
:he  paintings,  and  marbles,  and  rich  books,  which  a 
ooet  likes  to  gather  about  him. 

The  death  of  his  wife,  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  led 
Mr.  Bryant  to  seek  solace  in  his  Homeric  transla 
tions  ;  since  that  time  the  head  of  his  household  has 
been  his  daughter  Julia,  who  was  her  father's  constant 
companion.  From  this  Sixteenth  Street  home  Mr 


128  Poets'  Homes. 

Bryant,  to  the  last,  walked  to  his  office  every  week 
day  and  to  his  church  every  Sunday.  The  horse-car^ 
would  pay  sorry  profits  were  all  New  Yorkers  as  rig 
orous  pedestrians  as  he.  The  new  office  of  Tht 
Evening  Post  is  more  than  two  miles  distant  from  his 
Sixteenth  Street  home,  but  the  active  old  man  scorned 
to  make  his  trips  thither  on  wheels.  He  even,  when 
the  elevator  happened  to  be  full,  sturdily  walked  up 
to  the  editorial  rooms,  nine  flights  above  the  side 
walk.  Such  a  pull  as  this  seems  formidable  to  many 
a  man  of  a  quarter  of  his  years. 

This  hardihood  was  the  result,  in  Mr.  Bryant's  case, 
of  regular  exercise  before  breakfast  with  Indian  clubs, 
and  of  abstinence  from  narcotics  and  intoxicants. 
Even  tea  and  coffee  he  used  sparingly,  chocolate  be 
ing,  on  the  whole,  his  favorite  beverage. 

One  of  Mr.  Bryant's  most  agreeable  characteristics 
was  his  accessibility  and  his  kindliness  toward 
younger  and  obscurer  men.  No  artificial  dignity 
hedged  him  about  in  house  or  office  ;  for  his  natural 
grandeur  commanded  respect  from  the  most  careless. 
He  was  much  in  company  ;  he  not  infrequently  pre 
sided  over  important  meetings,  and  at  the  head  of 
social  and  civic  tables  he  was  a  great  favorite.  Be 
ing  popular  at  such  gatherings  he  was  naturally  happy 
thereat,  and  such  recreation  proved  to  him  refreshing 


William  Cullen  Bryant.  129 

ather  than  exhausting.  His  physician  was  un- 
loubtedly  wrong  in  thinking  that  they  predisposed 
iim  to  his  fatal  attack. 

For  more  than  thirty  years  Mr.  Bryant's  summer 
tome  was  in  the  Long  Island  village  of  Roslyn,  in 
Queen's  County  on  the  Sound,  some  twenty-five  miles 
rom  New  York.  The  little  village  has  scarcely  seven 
oindred  inhabitants  and  is  a  part  of  the  township  of 
forth  Hempstead.  Its  name  was  given  it  by  Mr. 
3ryant,  who  also  presented  to  the  village  a  neat  pub 
ic  hall.  His  local  attachment  was  strong  \  and  even 

0  Cummington,  after  many  a  long  year,  he  thought- 
ally  gave  a  well-chosen  public  library,  a  mile  from 
iis  birth-place  which  he  owned  and  visited  annually. 

"  Cedarmere,"  the  poet's  home  at  Roslyn,  is  a  ram- 
iling  old-fashioned  house,  surrounded  by  lofty  trees 
nd  long  reaches  of  green  grass.  It  is  homelike  with 
he  generous  wealth  of  cheer  which  comes  only  with 
ears.  No  mere  summering-place  would  satisfy  Bry- 
nt.  Here,  within  reach  of  New  York  and  his  news- 
aper  (a  steamer  plies  to  and  fro  daily),  he  sought 
nd  found,  in  the  rare  prospect  in  the  distance  and 

1  the  rich  adornment  near  at  hand,  both  rest  and  in- 
piration.     His  son-in-law,  Parke  Godwin,  was  a  near 
eighbor ;  but  still  nearer  neighbors  were  the  trees  and 
le  very  blades  of  grass  he  knew  so  well. 


130 


Poets'    Homes. 


And  now,  as  he  rests  in  the  little  Roslyn  graveyard, 
the  grass  and  the  leaves  seem  still  his  closest  friends. 
The  mourners  have  gone  away,  but  Nature  folds  hei 
poet  in  her  own  bosom. 


NORA  PERRY. 

k  /TOST  readers  of  current  literature  are  familiar 
VA  with  the  name  of  Nora  Perry,  and  with  some, 

not  all,  of  her  poems. 

The  grace  and  the  beauty  which  characterize  her 
,'rses  have  made  them  general  favorites,  and  the 
imes  of  some  of  them,  as  for  example.  "  After  the 
all,"  and  "  Tying  her  Bonnet  under  her  Chin,"  have 
jcome  household  words. 

When,  three  years  ago,  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co., 
•ought  out  a  collection  of  these  poems  in  a  beauti- 

13* 


132  Poets'  Homes. 

ful  volume,  one  of  the  critics  of  the  pi  ess,  alluding  to 
her  remarkable  facility  of  musical  versification,  called 
her  a  "  fairy  singer "  ;  and  Mrs.  Harriet  Prescott 
Spofford,  who  is  herself  one  of  the  sweetest  of  our 
poets,  said  at  that  time,  "  There  are  many  noble  poets 
in  this  country,  but  few  since  Edgar  Poe  so  purely 
lyrical  as  Nora  Perry.  Her  songs  seem  to  sing 
themselves,  and  their  music  bubbles  up  like  the 
notes  from  the  throat  of  a  bird,  one  phrase  answering 
the  other  in  exquisite  melody,  till  it  seems  as  if  tune 
and  echo  could  do  no  more." 

If  my  young  readers  wonder  at  these  words  of 
lofty  praise,  they  have  only  to  turn  to  Miss  Perry's 
volume  to  find  them  verified. 

Take  the  opening  stanzas  of  "  In  June  "  as  an  illus 
tration  : 

"  So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing  ; 

So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see ; 
So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming  bird  a-going 

From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  with  the  bee; 

"  So  sweet,  so  sweet  (he  calling  of  the  thrushes, 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing  everywhere ; 

So  sweet  the  waters'  song  through  reeds  and  rushes; 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there." 

How  charmingly  musical  is  this  description  of  the 
golden  days  of  early  summer !  The  poem,  like 


Nora  Perry.  133 

lany  of  her  others,  is  a  picture,  nay,  more  than  a 
icture,  for  so  vividly  are  the  scenes  brought  before 
s,  we  seem  to  enter  personally  into  their  gladness 
nd  beauty.  It  is  summer  while  \ve  read,  no  matter 
lough  the  winds  of  winter  are  blowing.  And  for 
ic  moment  we  can  hear  the  song  of  the  bird  and 
ic  drowsy  hum  of  the  bee. 

So,  too,  as  we  read  "Jane,"  that  gem  of  a  poem 
re  see  the  rain-drops  lie  sparkling  upon  the  leaves, 
nd  we  are  certain  we  really  smell  the  fragrance  of 
ic  flowers  after  the  refreshing  summer  shower. 

Nora  Perry's  poems  are  especially  interesting  to 
ic  young,  for  she,  more  than  most  poets,  has  spoken 
)  them. 

That  swinging,  laughing  poem  of  "Polly,"  which 
;as  first  published  in  Our  Young  Folks'  Magazine, 
5  no  doubt  familiar  to  many  readers  of  these 
olumes  who  may  have  heard  it  often  recited,  per- 
aps  mny  have  recited  it  themselves  at  school  exhibi- 
.ons  and  festivals,  quite  ignorant  of  the  author's 
ame,  since  it  is  always  to  be  found  in  the  newspapers, 
"Oin  Maine  to  Minnesota  : 

POLLY. 

"  Who's  this  coming  down  the  stairs, 
Putting  on  such  lofty  airs ; 


134  Poets'    Homes. 

"With  that  hump  upon  her  back, 

And  her  little  heels  click,  clack  ? 

Such  a  funny  little  girl, 

With  a  funny  great  long  curl 

Hanging  from  a  mound  of  hair ; 

And  a  hat  way  back  in  the  air, 

Just  to  show  a  little  border 

Of  yellow  curls  all  out  of  order. 

She's  a  silly  girl,  I  guess, 

I'm  glad  it  isn't —     Why,  bless 

My  soul !  it's  our  little  Polly 

Tricked  out  in  all  that  folly  ! 

Well,  I  declare,  I  never 

Was  so  beat ;  for  if  ever 

There  was  a  sensible  girl, 

I  thought  'twas  little  Polly  Earl. 

And  here —     Well,  it's  very  queer 

To  come  back,  after  a  year, 

And  find  my  Polly  changed  like  this.  — 

A  hunched-up,  bunched-up,  furbelowed  mis* 

With  a  steeple  of  a  hat 

And  her  hair  like  a  mat, 

It's  so  frightfully  frowzled 

And  roughed  up  and  tousled  ! 

O  Polly,  Polly  !  —    Well,  my  dear, 

So  you're  glad  grandfather's  here  ? 

And  I  confess  that  kiss 

Does  smack  of  the  Polly  I  miss,  — 

The  girl  with  the  soft,  smooth  hair, 

Instead  of  this  kinked-up  snare 

What !  you're  just  the  same  Polly, 

In  spite  of  all  this  folly  ? 

And  what  is  that  you  say, 

About  your  grandmother's  day, 

That  you  guess  the  folly 

Hasn't  just  begun?  —  O  Polly, 

If  you  could  only  have  seen 


Nora  Perry.  135 

Your  grandmother  at  eighteen  I 

What's  that  about  the  puffs 

And  the  stiffened-up  ruffs 

That  they  wore  in  the  time 

Of  your  grandmother's  prime  ? 

And  the  big  buckram  sleeves 

That  stood  out  like  the  leaves 

Of  the  old-fashioned  tables  ; 

And  the  bonnets  big  as  gables, 

And  the  laced-up  waists —     Why,  sho, 

Polly,  how  your  tongue  does  go  ! 

Little  girls  should  be  seen,  not  heard 

Quite  so  much.  Polly,  on  my  word. 

O,  I'm  trying  to  get  away, 

Eh,  from  your  grandmother's  day, 

But  I'm  not  to  escape 

Quite  so  easy  from  a  scrape  ? 

What,  you  expect  me  to  say 

That  your  grandmother's  day 

Was  as  foolish  as  this  ?  — 

Polly,  give  me  a  kiss ; 

I'm  beaten,  I  see  — 

And  I'll  agree,  I'll  agree 

That  young  folks  find 

All  things  to  their  mind ; 

And  in  your  grandmother's  time, 

When  I  too  was  in  my  prime, 

I've  no  doubt,  Polly, 

I  looked  at  all  the  folly 

Connected  with  the  lasses 

Through  rose-colored  glasses, 

As  the  youths  of  to-day 

Look  at  you,  Polly,  eh  ? 

But  I've  given  you  fair  warning 

How  older  folk  see;  so,  Polly,  good-morning." 


136  Poets'  Homes. 

Then  the  two  poems,  glowing  with  patriotism,  and 
infused  with  the  bright,  impressible  spirit  of  youth, 
that  of  the  Boston  boys  who 

"  protested, 
When  they  thought  their  rights  molested." 

and  "Bunker  Hill  in  1875,"  which  latter  was  pub 
lished  in  the  WIDE  AWAKE  of  that  year.  Both  have 
found  an  enduring  home  in  the  hearts  of  all  New 
England  boys ;  while  "  After  the  Ball,"  the  piece 
which  gives  the  title  to  Miss  Perry's  volume  of  poems 
to  which  we  have  referred,  has  been  upon  the  lips  of 
how  many  bright,  sunny-hearted  girls,  who,  dreaming 
of  the  future  and  what  it  holds  in  store  for  them, 
after  some  gay  gathering,  like  Maud  and  Madge 
have 


" — sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 
Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  chamber  there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

"  Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille. 

Idly  they  laughed,  like  other  girls, 
Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 

Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

"  Robes  of  satin  and  brussels  lace, 

Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons  too, 
Scattered  about  in  every  place, 

Fnr  the  revel  is  through. 


Nora  Perry.  137 

"  And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockingless,  slipperless,  s.it  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done. 


"  Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and  gold, 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold." 


Although  Miss  Perry  is  best  known  as  a  poet,  she, 
nevertheless,  has  been  a  successful  writer  of  prose, 
and  many  of  her  stories  have  touched  the  popular 
heart;  those  for  younger  readers  being  especially 
happy  in  construction  and  dialogue.  "  Bessie's  Trials 
at  Boarding  School "  is  one  of  the  best.  It  is  a 
delightful  story,  indeed,  for  a  reader  of  any  age,  its 
only  fault  being  its  brevity.  This,  with  other  stories 
of  a  like  nature,  was  brought  out  in  a  volume  by  D. 
Lothrop  &  Co.,  in  1876,  as  a  Christmas  book. 

Miss  Perry's  home  is  in  Providence,  in  little  Rhode 
Island,  though  she  was  a  Massachusetts  girl,  and  is  so 
much  in  Boston  that  many  persons  have  an  idea  that 
her  fixed  residence  is  there. 

To  reach  this  home  we  go  up  over  one  of  the 
beautiful  hills  for  which  Providence  is  noted,  and, 
entering  a  quiet  street,  stop  at  last  before  a  modest 
little  house  shaded  by  two  branching  elms.  But  it  is 


138  Poets'  Homes. 

not  the  exterior,  it  is  the  interior  in  which  we  are 
most  interested,  for  it  is  there  that  Nora  Perry's 
individuality  has  opportunity  to  express  itself.  Ad 
mitted  to  this  interior  we  are  shown  into  a  charming 
room  of  which  we  take  fascinated  observation  while 
we  await  the  coming  of  its  fair  mistress. 

The  heavy  drapery  of  the  windows  gives  the  room 
a  soft,  subdued  light,  but  quite  sufficient  to  enable  us 
to  discover  its  artistic  arrangement.  If  it  is  winter  a 
bright  open  wood  fire  is  burning  before  us.  On  the 
walls,  all  about,  are  pictures  —  pictures  everywhere  ; 
bits  of  painting,  beautiful  engravings,  and  choice 
specimens  of  photographic  art.  In  a  corner  stands 
a  wide  writing  table,  and  close  beside  it  a  book-case 
filled  with  books. 

This  corner  is  our  lady's  work-shop,  the  nook 
where  our  sweet  singer's  songs  are  penned. 

While  still  interested  with  our  pleasant  surround 
ings  the  door  opens,  and  our  poet  enters.  She  is 
small  in  stature,  a  blonde  of  the  purest  type.  She 
comes  forward  to  welcome  us  with  a  quiet,  graceful 
manner,  reminding  us  of  the  graceful  movement  of 
her  own  verses. 

What  we  notice  more  particularly  about  Miss 
Perry  is  the  bright  smile  which,  as  the  conversation 
changes  from  one  interesting  theme  to  another,  lights 


Nora  Perry.  139 

her  face  with  a  beauty  never  found  in  the  features  of 
persons  of  less  highly  organized  natures ;  a  smile 
which  indicates  the  elastic  and  sympathetic  tempera 
ment,  which  rises  above  the  annoyances  of  this  world 
and  somehow  lifts  you  with  it. 

As  you  see  and  feel  all  this,  you  do  not  wonder 
that  the  critics  have  characterized  her  poems  as 
"  healthy,"  a  term  full  of  meaning  in  these  days  of 
lugubrious  sentimental  rhyming.  And  as  we  turn 
away  from  our  poet  and  her  enchanting  work-shop, 
as  we  say  good-by  to  the  pretty,  quaint  room,  and  the 
poet  herself,  we  naturally  recall  the  words  of  that 
eminent  critic,  E.  P.  Whipple,  who,  in  summing  up 
the  influence  of  Miss  Perry's  poems,  says :  "  The 
trouble  with  most  female  poets  is  that  they  are  apt  to 
use  verse  merely  to  celebrate  their  sombre  or  discon 
tented  moods.  They  set  wretchedness  to  music. 
But  here  is  a  poetess  who  is  all  alive  with  the  spirit  of 
sweet  content  and  glee.  She  sings  as  a  bird  sings, 
from  an  abounding,  overflowing  joy  of  heart." 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

THE  home  of  Emerson  is  in  Concord,  Mass.,  as 
everybody  knows.  It  is  a  plain,  square,  wooden 
house,  standing  in  a  grove  of  pine  trees  which  con 
ceal  the  front  and  side  from  the  gaze  of  passers.  Tall 
chestnut  trees  ornament  the  old-fashioned  yard 
through  which  a  road  leads  to  the  plain,  yellow  barn 
in  the  rear.  A  garden  fills  half  an  acre  at  the  back, 
and  has  for  years  been  famous  for  its  roses  which  are 
the  especial  pride  and  care  of  the  mistress  of  the 
house  and  are  freely  given  to  all  who  wish  them ;  this 
140 


Ralph    Waldo  Emerson.  143 

garden  also  has  a  rare  collection  of  hollyhocks,  the 
lowers  that  Wordsworth  loved,  and  most  of  the  old 
rime  annuals  and  shrubs.  From  the  road  a  gate, 
which  is  always  open,  leads  over  marble  flag-stones 
to  the  broad,  low  step  before  the  hospitable  door. 

A  long  hall  divides  the  centre  of  the  house,  with 
five  large  square  rooms  on  each  side ;  a  plain,  solid 
table  stands  at  the  right  of  this  entry,  over  which  is 
an  old  picture  of  Diana. 

The  first  door  on  the  right  leads  to  the  study,  a 
plain,  square  room,  lined  on  two  sides  with  simple 
wooden  shelves  filled  with  choice  books ;  a  large  ma 
hogany  table  stands  in  the  middle,  covered  with 
books,  and  by  the  morocco  writing-pad,  lies  the  pen 
which  has  had  so  great  an  influence  for  twenty-five 
years  on  the  thoughts  of  two  continents.  A  large  fire 
place,  with  high  brass  andirons,  occupies  the  lower  end, 
over  which  hangs  a  fine  copy  of  Michael  Angelo's 
Fates,  the  faces  of  the  strong-minded  women  frown 
ing  upon  all  who  would  disturb  with  idle  tongues  this 
haunt  of  solemn  thought.  On  the  mantle  shelf  are  busts 
and  statuettes  of  men  prominent  in  the  great  re 
forms  of  the  age,  and  a  quaint,  rough  idol  brought 
from  the  Nile.  A  few  choice  engravings  hang  upon 
the  walls,  and  the  pine  trees  brush  against  the  win 
dows. 


t44  Poets'  Homes, 

Two  doors,  one  on  each  side  of  the  great  fire-place, 
lead  into  the  large  parlor  which  fills  the  southern 
quarter  of  the  house.  This  room  is  hung  with  cur 
tains  of  crimson  and  carpeted  with  the  same  warm 
color,  and  when  a  bright  fire  is  blazing  on  the  broad 
hearth  reflected  in  the  large  mirror  opposite,  the 
effect  is  cheerful  in  the  extreme.  A  beautiful  por 
trait  of  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  house  is  hung  in 
this  pleasant  and  homelike  room,  whose  home 
circle  seems  to  reach  around  the  world;  for  al 
most  every  person  of  note,  who  has  visited  this  coun 
try,  has  enjoyed  its  genial  hospitality,  and  listened 
with  attention  to  the  words  of  wisdom  from  the  kindly 
master  of  the  house  —  the  most  modest  and  most 
gifted  writer,  and  deepest  thinker  of  the  age.  Years 
ago  the  chatty,  little  Frederika  Bremer  paid  a  long 
visit  here,  a  brisk  old  lady,  as  restless  as  her  tongue 
and  pen.  Here  Margaret  Fuller  and  the  other  bright 
figures  of  the  Dial  met  for  conversation  and  consulta 
tion.  Thoreau  was  a  daily  visitor,  and  his  wood- 
notes  might  have  been  unuttered  but  for  the  kind  en 
couragement  he  found  here.  The  Alcotts,  father  and 
daughter,  were  near  neighbors,  and  it  was  in  this 
room  that  Mr.  Alcott's  earliest  "  Conversations  "  were 
held,  now  so  well  known.  Here,  too,  old  John 
Brown  was  often  to  be  met,  a  plain,  poorly-dressed 


Ralph    Waldo  Emerson.  147 

old  farmer,  seeming  out  of  place,  and  absorbed  in 
his  own  plans  until  some  allusion,  or  chance  remark, 
would  fire  his  soul  and  light  up  his  rugged  features. 
Hawthorne,  the  handsome,  moody,  despairing  genius, 
there  woke  from  his  morbid  reveries ;  and  here  Cur 
tis,  the  graceful  writer,  the  silver-tongued  orator,  in 
dulged  in  his  merry  satire,  which  spared  neither 
friend  or  foe. 

But  a  dozen  volumes  would  not  give  space  enough 
to  mention  in  full  the  many  guests  from  foreign  lands, 
who  have  been  entertained  at  this  house,  which  is 
also  a  favorite  place  for  the  villagers  to  visit.  The 
school-children  of  Concord  are  entertained  here 
every  year  with  merry  games  and  dances,  and  they 
look  forward  with  great  interest  to  the  eventful  oc 
casion. 

The  house  was  partially  destroyed  by  fire  in  the 
spring  of  1873,  and  was  rebuilt  as  nearly  as  possible 
like  the  former.  During  the  building  a  portion  of  the 
family  found  shelter  in  the  Old  Manse,  the  home  of 
Mr.  Emerson's  grandfather,  while  Mr.  Emerson  him 
self  visited  Europe.  Upon  his  return  an  impromptu 
reception  took  place ;  the  citizens  gathered  at  the 
depot  in  crowds,  the  school  children  were  drawn  up 
in  two  smiling  rows,  through  which  he  passed,  greeted 
by  enthusiastic  cheers  and  songs  of  welcome.  All 


148  Poets'  Homes. 

followed  his  carriage  to  the  house  and  sung  "  Home 
Sweet  Home,"  to  the  music  of  the  band.  A  few  days 
afterward  he  invited  all  his  fellow-citizens  to  call  and 
see  him  in  his  new  home,  and  nearly  all  the  inhab 
itants  availed  themselves  of  the  opportunity. 

A  general  invitation  is  now  very  often  extended  to 
old  and  ydiing,  to  assemble  on  Sunday  evenings  in 
the  pleasant  parlor  for  conversation.  Many  of  these 
talks  have  been  led  by  Mr.  Alcott,  as  before  men 
tioned.  Some  have  been  of  religious  nature,  espe 
cially  those  led  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Channing,  and  by 
Rev.  Mr.  Reynolds,  the  pastor  of  the  Unitarian 
church. 

The  house  stands  on  an  old  country  road,  up  which 
the  British  marched  on  the  memorable  igth  of  April, 
1775.  Let  us  follow  their  footsteps,  which  history 
and  legend  have  kept  distinct  for  over  one  hundred 
years.  , 

In  full  "uniform,  just  from  the  massacre  at  Lex- 

-A  .  .>        vJfo-j  I ;  . 

"  ington,  they  marched  in  upon  the  Common,  and 
were  drawn  up  before  the  old  church  of  which  the 
grandfather  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  pastor. 
The  Sunday  previous  he  had  preached  his  famous 
sermon,  on  the  theme,  "  Resistance  to  tyrants  is 
obedience  to  God,"  and  Hancock  and  Adams  had 
fired  the  hearts  of  the  people  in  the  same  building 


Ralph  Waldo  Emeison.  151 

which  now  contains  some  of  the  very  timber  which 
sustained  the  famous  Continental  Congress  of  that 
day.  Major  Pitcairn,  who  commanded  the  British, 
took  up  his  post  on  the  hill  opposite,  probably  near 
the  spot  shown  in  the  picture,  where  the  tomb  of  the 
patriot  preacher  now  stands. 

The  Rev.  William  Emerson  was  a  very  energetic 
and  fearless  man,  and  had  assembled  his  people  very 
early  in  the  morning,  and  delivered  to  them  a  stirring 
address,  advising  resistance,  at  whatever  cost,  and  it 
is  said  that  his  people  were  so  anxious  for  his  safety 
that  they  compelled  him  to  remain  all  day  a  prisoner 
it  the  Old  Manse.  Soon  after  he  joined  the  army  as 
:haplain,  and  died  in  consequence  of  the  exposure 
and  the  fatigues  of  the  camp.  His  tomb  is  on  the 
ourying-hill  overlooking  the  old  church  where  he 
labored  so  nobly.  Tradition  declares  that  he  deliv 
ered  his  famous  speech  that  morning,  under  an  elm 
which  stands  on'the  Common,  and  which  is  known  to 
lave  been  in  existence  at  that  time.  A  hundred 
/ears  later,  when  the  descendants  of  the  same  men 
tfho  fought  that  day  returned  from  the  bloody  battle- 
ielcls  of  the  south  bearing  in  honor  the-  same  ancient 
lames  and  assisted  at  the  dedication  of  the  monu- 
nent  to  their  comrades  who  were  "faithful  unto 
leath,"  the  present  Mr.  Emerson  delivered  an  ad- 


Poets'  Homes. 


dress,  standing  in  the  shadows  of  the  same  noble  old 
elm,  making  true  the  lines  in  the  ode  sung  on  that 
day: 

"The  patriot-preacher's  bugle  call,  that  April  morning  knew, 
Still  lingers  in  the  silver  tones  of  him  who  speaks  to  you." 

This  notable  tree  is  an  American  elm  of  perfect 
symmetry  of  shape,  and  shades  a  circle  of  one  hun 
dred  feet  in  diameter ;  and  it  stands  an  enduring 
monument  to  the  valor  and  eloquence  of  three  gen 
erations.  (Ijnust  add  that  it  has  been  said  to  have 

been  used  as  a  whip 
ping  post,  and  that 
the  iron  rings  to 
which  the  culprits 
were  fastened,  are 
still  buried  in  its 
mighty  trunk.) 

After  a  short  halt 
on  this  Common,  the 
troops  proceeded  up 
the  street  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  past  the 
Old  Manse  to  the 
North  Bridge,  a  hun 
dred  rods  farther 
on,  and  there  the  fight,  ever  memorable  in  American 
history,  occurred. 


ON  THE  BURYING-HILL. — 
TOMB  OF  REV.  WILLIAM 
EMERSON. 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  153 

The  spot  on  which  the  British  fought  has  long  been 
marked  by  a  plain,  granite  monument,  a  portion  of 
the  inscription  upon  which  was  written  by  Mr.  Em 
erson,  who  also  delivered  at  its  dedication  the  famous 
poem,  which  cannot  be  too  often  quoted  : 

"  By  the  wide  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

I  lere  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silei.ce  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  that  seaward  creep-* 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone  ; 
That  memory  may  their  dead  redeem, 

When  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  these  htroes  dare 

To  die  and  leave  their  children  free. 
Kid  time  and  nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  Thee." 

For  the  side  where  the  Americans  fought,  Mr, 
D.  C.  French,  a  young  sculptor  of  the  town,  has  de 
signed  a  bronze  statue  of  the  Minute  Man  of  the 
day,  with  wonderful  truth  and  vigor  of  action  ;  and  it 
is  visited  daily  by  people  who  come  from  far  and 
near,  and  the  bridge,  which  has  been  built  by  the  cit 
izens  of  the  town  to  copy  the  old  North  Bridge,  is 


Poets'  Homes. 


constantly  being  crossed  by  every  description  of 
vehicle,  conveying  passengers  to  study  the  details  of 
the  monument,  as  the  costume  of  the  expectant  sol- 


YE  oib  ma 


dier,  the  old-fashioned  plough  upon  which  he  leans, 
and  the  old  flint-lock  musket  which  he  grasps,  are 
careful  copies  of  the  originals  from  which  the  young 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  157 

•tist  made  the  closest  studies.  Upon  a  granite  base 
2  cut  the  first  lines  of  the  hymn  quoted  above.  It 
as  been  well  said,  "  Few  towns  can  furnish  a  poet,  a 
:ulptor,  and  an  occasion." 

As  they  pass  over  the  bridge  on  their  return,  even 
ie  most  careless  visitor  pauses  for  a  moment  at  the 
•ave  of  the  British  soldiers,  who,  for  a  hundred 
iars,  have  lain  on  the  spot  where  they  were  hastily 
iried  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fight,  by  two  of  the 
oncord  men  who  made  a  grave  for  them  just  where 
iey  had  fallen.  No  one  knew  their  names,  and  thej 
ept  unwept,  save  by  the  murmuring  pines,  with  the 
;ry  same  rough  stones  from  the  wall  which  have 
;en  the  only  marks  for  a  century,  until  at  the  cen- 
nnial  anniversary,  in  April  1875,  the  town  caused 
e  inscription,  "  The  graves  of  British  Soldiers,"  to 
:  cut  in  a  large  granite  block,  which  now  forms  a 
irt  of  the  wall  near  which  they  lie.  The  next  year 
i  Englishman,  the  editor  of  a  newspaper  in  Boston, 
used  iron  chains  to  be  placed  around,  to  guard  the 
ugh  headstones  from  the  attack  of  the  relic-hunters, 
10  have  had  the  Vandalism  to  break  off  large  pieces 
carry  away. 

The  Old  Manse,  which  has  been  at  various  times 
e  home  of  Emerson,  stands  at  the  left  of  the  battle- 
ound  and  is  approached  by  an  avenue  of  noble 


158  Poets'    Homes. 

trees,  which  were  originally  black  ash,  a  tree  very 
rare  in  this  part  of  New  England.  Many  of  these 
ash  trees  have  died  from  age,  and  their  places  have 
been  supplied  by  elms  and  maples.  Two  high  posts 
of  granite  mark  the  entrance  to  the  avenue,  which 
extends  for  about  two  hundred  feet  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  Opposite,  across  the  narrow  country  road, 
a  hill  overlooks  the  village,  and  gives  a  fine  view  of 
the  winding  river,  and  distant  mountains.  A  solitary 
poplar  crowns  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  affords  a 
landmark  to  the  river-voyager,  as  it  can  be  seen  for 
miles  up  and  down  the  stream.  A  romantic  legend  is 
connected  with  this  tree,  about  a  party  of  young  girls 
who  were  at  school  in  the  Old  Manse,  each  of  whom 
caused  a  tree  to  be  set  out,  and  called  by  her  name. 
Year  by  year,  the  girls  and  trees  grew  up  together  in  ; 
grace  and  beauty.  At  length,  one  by  one,  the  old 
ladies  died,  and  the  trees  died  too,  until  one  very  old 
lady  and  this  old  weather-beaten  poplar  alone  re 
mained.  The  lady  for  whom  the  surviving  poplar 
was  named,  has  gone  to  her  rest,  and  the  tree  seems 
likely  to  follow  before  long. 

The  large  field  at  the  left  of  the  Old  Manse,  which 
divides  it  from  the  battle-ground,  was,  centuries  ago, 
the  site  of  an  Indian  village,  and  often  rough  arrows 
and  spear-heads  have  been  turned  up  by  the  plough, 


Ralph    Waldo  Emerson.  159 

The  savages  probably  chose  this  gentle  slope  by  the 
river  for  the  sake  of  the  fish  with  which  it  then 
abounded,  for  the  earlier  settlers  report  a  plentiful  sup 
ply  of  shad  and  salmon,  where  now  poor  little  brearr.s 
and  horn-pouts  alone  tempt  the  idle  fisherman.  Be 
hind  the  house  there  extends  to  the  river  an  ancient 
orchard  of  apple  trees,  which  is  in  itself  a  monument 
of  energy  and  faith,  for  it  was  set  by  the  hoary- 
headed  old  minister,  for  the  benefit  of  his  descend 
ants  ;  but  at  the  age  of  ninety  he  enjoyed  a  rich  har 
vest  to  repay  him  for  his  disinterested  labors.  The 
house,  built  by  him  in  the  year  1765,  and  occupied  by 
him  the  next  year  after  his  marriage  to  a  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  Daniel  Bliss,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
years  when  it  was  occupied  by  Hawthorne,  has  always 
been  the  home  of  ministers  and  the  descendants  of 
the  builder.  Nearly  all  the  old  New  England  minis 
ters  have  been  entertained  under  its  roof,  and  many 
questions  affecting  the  beliefs  of  the  age  have  been 
here  discussed  and  settled.  The  room  in  which  this 
article  is  written,  was  the  study  of  the  Rev.  Ezra 
Ripley,  who  married  the  widow  of  the  builder  of  the 
home,  and  here  thousands  of  sermons  have  doubtless 
been  written.  It  is  a  small,  square  room  with  high 
wainscot  and  oaken  beams  overhead,  with  a  huge 
fire-place  where  four-foot  sticks  used  to  burn  on  great, 
high,  brass  andirons. 


160  Poets'  ff antes. 

It  was  in  this  room,  too,  that  the  ghost  used  to 
appear,  according  to  Hawthorne,  but  it  probably  only 
existed  in  his  brilliant  imagination.  Often,  on  /i 
winter  night,  the  latch  of  the  old  door  has  lifted 
without  human  help,  and  a  gust  of  cold  wind  ha'j 
swept  into  the  room. 

Opposite  the  study,  is  a  larger  room,  which  is  mod 
ernized  by  rare  photographs  and  recent  adornmentr,, 
and  is  used  as  a  parlor  by  its  present  owners,  th  j 
grandchildren  of  the  original  proprietors.  From  thij 
apartment  a  door  opens  into  the  ancient  dining-roon^ 
in  which  the  old-time  ministers  held  their  solem  j 
feasts,  and  it  is  said  that  they  were  well  able  to  ap 
preciate  the  good  cheer  which  covered  the  long  table 
that  nearly  filled  the  narrow  hall.  In  one  corner  of 
this  room  stands  a  tall  clock,  looking  across  at  its 
life-long  companion,  the  ancient  desk  of  Dr.  Ripley ; 
and  a  set  of  curious,  old,  high-backed  chairs  recall 
the  days  of  our  upright  ancestors. 

Opposite  this  room  is  a  big  kitchen  with  its  enor 
mous  fire-place,  which  twenty-five  years  ago  was  used 
wholly  by  the  present  occupants  for  all  purposes  of 
cooking.  The  hooks  which  held  the  long,  iron  crane 
on  which  the  pots  and  kettles  hung  still  remain,  al 
though  a  modern  cooking  stove  occupies  the  chief 
part  of  the  broad  hearth. 

The  Old  Manse  was   the  principal  house    of   the 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  163 

town  for  many  years,  and,  probably  the  only  one  v/hich 
had  two  stories,  as  almost  all  of  the  houses  of  its 
period  were  built  with  a  lean-to.  It  was  also  the  only 
one  which  was  built  with  two  chimneys,  thus  giving  a 
large  garret,  which  is  rich  in  the  curious  lumber  of 
two  generations,  and  stored  with  literature  enjoyed 
only  by  the  spider  and  the  moth.  In  one  corner,  on 
the  southern  side,  is  a  curious,  "^ttle  room  which  has 
been  always  known  as  the  "  Saints'  Chamber,"  its 
walls  bearing  inscriptions  in  the  hand  writing  of  the 
holy  men  who  have  rested  there. 

The  room  over  the  dining-room  is  perhaps  the 
most  interesting,  for  it  was  here  that  Emerson  wrote 
"  Nature  "  and  also  many  of  his  best  poems.  Haw 
thorne  describes  this  room,  which  he  also  used  as 
his  study,  in  his  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse," 
which  was  also  written  there.  It  has  three  windows 
with  small  cracked  panes  of  glass  bearing  inscrip 
tions  traced  with  a  diamond,  probably  by  some  of 
the  Hawthorne  family.  From  the  northern  window 
the  wife  of  the  Rev.  William  Emerson  watched  the 
progress  of  the  igth  April  fight ;  and  one  hundred 
years  later,  on  the  same  day,  her  grandaughter,  who 
now  occupies  the  room,  pointed  out  to  her  guests  the 
honored  men  who  marched  in  long  procession  over 
the  old  North  Bridge  to  dedicate  the  new  monument 


164  Poets'1  Homes, 

and  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  memorable  day. 

In  fine  weather  the  house  is  filled  with  guests, 
and  nearly  every  day  some  curious  stranger  begs  per 
mission  to  enter  the  time-honored  hall,  which  runs 
directly  through  the  house,  as  the  door  opposite  the 
main  entrance  opens  into  the  orchard,  and  affords 
glimpses  of  the  gentle  rises  beyond. 

At  the  foot  of  this  orchard,  all  the  renowned  guests 
of  the  house  have  been  accustomed  to  enter  the  boat, 
which  is  moored  to  a  great  rock  at  the  river-brink,  to 
row  up  the  stream  for  half  a  mile  to  "  the  Hemlocks." 
All  of  the  Coneord  writers  have  sung  the  praises  of 
this  romantic  spot.  After  rowing  up  stream  in  the 
sun  to  Egg  Rock,  the  point  where  the  Sudbury  and 
A.ssabet  rivers  unite  to  form  the  Concord,  it  is 
"ery  delightful  to  ascend  the  Assabet  which  flows 
Jilong  in  the  eternal  shade  of  its  high,  tree-crowned 
'janks.  At  a  sudden  bend,  where  for  years  the  water 
lias  been  forced  against  a  high,  sandy  bank,  which  it 
has  washed  out  in  irregular  curves,  great  hemlock 
trees  bend  in  various  angles  toward  the  river  and  as 
the  roots  are  washed  from  their  hold,  they  bend  lower 
and  lower,  year  by  year,  so  that  they  almost  touch 
the  water,  until  in  some  spring  freshet  the  last  grasp 
of  the  tangled  roots  is  loosened  from  its  hold,  and 
the  great  tree  goes  sailing  down  toward  the  Merri- 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


16; 


mack  and  the  ocean  beyond.     At  present,  the  lowest 
one  is  twenty  feet  above   the  river, 
and  the  bank  beneath  offers  a  lux 
uriant  shade   all   hours  of  the  day. 
The  quiet  river  slowly  gliding  be 
tween     its      fair 
banks  has  always 
been  loved 
by     Emer 


son  and  in 
spired  ma 
ny  o  f  his 
poems; 
and  in  sev. 
e  r  a  1  of 
them  he 
has  spoken 
of  it  as  as- 
soc  i  ated 
with  his 
family  and 
friends  as 
in  the 
"Dirge  "  in 
his  first  col 


lection  of  poems  : 


"  The  winding  Concord  gleamed  below 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood." 


1 68  Poets'  Homes. 

And  again  in  the  "  In  Memoriam,"  in  the  second 
volume  : 

"  Behold  the  river  bank, 

Whither  the  angry  farmers  came, 

In  sloven  dress  and  broken  rank, 

Nor  thought  of  fame." 
****»«* 

"  Yet  not  of  these  I  muse, 

In  this  ancestral  place, 

But  of  a  kindred  face, 

That  never  joy  or  hope  shall  here  diffuse." 

Among  Mr.  Emerson's  poems  are  many  that  chil 
dren  can  understand  and  enjoy.  In  his  first  volume, 
published  in  1847,  we  find  the  lines  to  "  The  Rho- 
dora,"  and  surely  no  one  who  reads  them  will  ever 
see  again  the  pretty,  purple  flower,  which  is  one  of 
the  very  earliest  to  greet  us  in  the  spring,  without 
recalling  the  lines : 

"  Rhodora,  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky. 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wast  there,  O,  rival  of  the  rose  ! 

I  never  thought  to  ask.     I  never  knew  ; 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there,  brought  you." 

Where  would  you  find  a  truer  description  of  "  A 
Snow-Storm,"  than  in  the  poem  bearing  that  title  ?  and 
indeed,  one  great  charm  of  all  Mr.  Emerson's  poetry 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  169 

is  that  his  descriptions  of  nature  are  always  true  and 
real,  nothing  ever  overdrawn.  In  the  same  volume 
is  the  "  Humblebee,"  "  hot  midsummer's  petted 
crone,"  and  I  venture  to  say  that  many  a  boy  who 
has  lain  in  the  grass  a  hot  summer's  afternoon,  and 
watched  with  pleasure  one  of  the  little  fellows  in  his 
"  zigzag "  course,  darting  in  and  out  of  the  flowers 
"sipping  only  what  is  sweet,"  has,  when  he  grew 
older,  been  perfectly  delighted  to  find  that  the  poet 
had  described  the  very  things  which  he  had  enjoyed, 
but  could  not  express ;  and  while  reading,  has,  in 
imagination,  been  carried  back  again  to  the  fields  in 
which  he  then  played. 

The  poem  called  "  Threnody"  has  touched  many  a 
heart,  which  sermons  have,  in  vain,  tried  to  reach 

"On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are. 

When  thou  didst  yield  thy  innocent  breath 

In  birdl  ike  heavings  unto  death, 

Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee  : 

I  said,  'we  are  mates  in  misery.' 

The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow ; 

Each  snow-bird  chirped,  each  fowl  must  crow ; 

Each  tramper  started  ;  but  the  feet 

Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 

Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 

And  garden, —  they  were  bound  and  still.1' 

Read,  too,  the  pine-tree  song,  in  "  Wood-notes." 
The   second  volume,  called   "  May-Day,"  will    for 


1 76  Poets'  Homes. 

the  most  part  be  more  interesting  to  older  people 
than  to  children,  but  the  "Fourth  of  July  Ode  ;"  would 
teach  the  highest  lessons,  even  to  a  young  child.  For 
instance : 

"  Be  just  at  home  ;  then  write  your  scroll 

Of  honor  o'er  the  sea, 
And  bid  the  broad  Atlantic  roll, 

A  ferry  of  the  free. 

"  And  henceforth  there  shall  be  no  chain, 

Save  underneath  the  sea, 
The  wires  shall  murmur  through  the  main, 

Sweet  songs  of  Liberty?' 

And  the  "  Boston  Hymn  "  is  written  in  much  the 
same  strain  • 

"  My  Angel  —  his  name  is  Freedom, — 

Choose  him  to  be  your  king. 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 

And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

"  And  ye  shall  succor  men : 

'Tis  nobleness  to  serve  ; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again; 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve." 

In  December,  1873,  there  was  a  great  meeting  at 
Fanueil  Hall  in  Boston,  to  celebrate  the  one  hun 
dredth  anniversary  of  the  throwing  over  the  tea  into 
Boston  Harbor,  which  incident  all  children  have 
read  in  their  history  of  the  United  States  ;  and  then 
Mr.  Emerson  read  a  poem  which  has  never  yet  been 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  171 

published,  except  in  the  newspapers  at  the  time.  In 
this  brief  mention  of  his  poetry  an  attempt  has  been 
made  simply  to  call  the  attention  of  children  to  such 
poems  as  they  can  easily  understand  and  enjoy.  Per 
haps  they  must  wait  before  they  can  comprehend  all 
of  his  works,  but  the  youngest  can  understand  at 
once  his  genial  nature  and  kind  heart,  for  everyone, 
young  or  old,  simple  or  learned,  who  has  been  for 
tunate  enough  to  know  him,  loves  and  honors  him. 
His  perfect  courtesy  never  fails.  From  the  humblest 
he  seems  anxious  to  learn.  The  modest  aspirant  for 
literary  success  finds  in  him  appreciation  and  in 
spiration,  and  in  the  hearts  of  his  townsmen  and 
friends  is  the  truest  home  of  Emerson. 

Mr.  Emerson  has  an  erect,  slender  figure,  rather 
above  the  medium  height,  now  slightly  bowed  by  the 
weight  of  some  seventy  years.  His  appearance, 
though  dignified,  is  very  retiring  and  singularly  refined 
and  gentlemanly.  His  face  has  a  thoughtful  and 
somewhat  preoccupied  expression,  with  keen  eyes 
and  aquiline  nose.  His  countenance  lights  up  with 
a  rare  appreciation  of  humor  of  which  he  has  the 
keenest  sense,  but  his  chief  characteristics  are  benefi 
cence  and  courtesy,  which  never  fails,  whether  ad 
dressing  the  humblest  pauper  or  the  most  distin 
guished  scholar. 


PAUL  H.  HAYNE. 

JOHN  HAYNE,  of  Hayne  Hall,  Shropshire,  was 
the  honest  and  sturdy  name  of  the  most  promi 
nent  of  the  English  gentry  from  whom  Paul  H. 
Hayne  counts  his  honorable  descent.  What  doughty 
deeds  brightened  the  records  of  the  English  famil) 
of  Haynes  there  is  no  need  to  seek ;  for,  in  America, 
we  do  not  care  to  sail  across  the  Atlantic  in  search 
of  knightly  or  courtly  chronicles,  so  long  as  we  can 
look  at  the  reputation  won  by  those  members  of  any 
family  whose  names  have  become  a  part  of  our  own 
history. 

172 


Paul  H.  Hayne,  \  73 

The  Haynes  of  South  Carolina,  like  the  Adamses 
and  Quincys  of  Massachusetts,  have  seemed  to  rely 
for  fame  rather  upon  the  putting  forth  of  some  new 
achievement  in  each  generation,  than  upon  any  proud 
contemplation  of  past  celebrity  or  renown. 

For  instance,  there  was  an  old  Isaac  Hayne,  born 
in  South  Carolina  in  1745,  who,  having  served  in  a 
patriot  regiment  in  the  Revolution,  was  made  pris 
oner  by  the  British  in  1780  and  released  on  parole. 
The  next  year,  his  family  having  been  attacked  by 
small-pox  in  Charleston,  he  was  permitted  to  visit 
them  ;  but  only  to  find  his  wife  dying  and  one  of  his 
children  already  dead.  Before  being  allowed  to  pay 
this  sad  visit,  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  his  alle 
giance  to  Great  Britain,  though  under  protest,  and 
with  an  express  exemption  from  bearing  arms.  But  his 
wife  and  child  were  hardly  in  their  graves  when  Isaac 
Hayne  was  bidden  to  take  up  arms  against  his  state 
and  country.  The  British  promise  being  thus  broken, 
Hayne  considered  himself  free  and  took  command 
of  a  regiment  of  South  Carolina  militia,  which  he 
bravely  led  until  again  taken  prisoner  in  1781.  The 
exasperated  Royalists  hung  him  without  trial  on  the 
4th  of  August  in  that  year.  This  patriotic  Colonel 
Hayne,  who  was  a  wealthy  and  popular  planter  and 
manufacturer,  was  great-uncle  to  Robert  Y.  Hayne, 


174  Poets'    Homes, 

Webster's  famous  antagonist  in  the  United  States' 
Senate. 

Governor  Robert  Y.  Hayne,  Paul  H.  Hayne's  un 
cle,  was,  on  the  testimony  of  Edward  Everett,  gener 
ally  considered  to  be  in  1830  the  foremost  South 
erner  in  Congressional  debates,  with  the  single  ex 
ception  of  John  C.  Calhoun.  Born  in  Colleton  Dis 
trict,  South  Carolina,  in  1791,  he  served  for  a  time 
in  the  war  of  1812  while  still  a  mere  youth,  and  be 
came  Speaker  of  the  South  Carolina  House  of  Rep 
resentatives  in  1818,  when  but  twenty-seven  years  of 
age.  In  1823  he  was  sent  to  the  United  States'  Sen 
ate,  where  he  was  the  first  Congressman  to  assert  the 
doctrine  that  a  state  may  arrest  or  "  nullify  "  the  op 
eration  of  national  laws  in  her  opinion  unconstitu 
tional. 

In  the  defence  of  this  doctrine  he  had,  the  year 
previous,  while  Governor  of  South  Carolina,  narrowly 
escaped  coming  into  collision  with  President  Jack 
son.  In  January,  1830,  his  great  speech  in  the  Senate 
was  delivered,  a  speech  not  only  notable  in  itself, 
as  a  masterly  presentation  of  the  political  doctrine  in 
question,  but  forever  to  be  famous  as  having  evoked, 
in  reply,  the  speech  which  Daniel  Webster's  latest 
biographer  calls  "  the  greatest  and  most  renowned  ora 
torical  effort "  of  the  New  England  statesman.  It  was 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  175 

Greek  meeting  Greek ;  and  both  Hayne  and  Webster 
felt  that  they  had  worthy  antagonists.  Indeed,  as 
the  story-books  say,  they  "  lived  happily  ever  after," 
as  far  as  their  affectionate  personal  relations  were 
concerned ;  for  men  truly  great  never  cherish  petty 
personal  resentments,  however  strong  their  political 
opinions.  • 

Governor  Hayne  visited  Webster  at  Marshfield, 
and  once  said  of  Webster's  argument :  "  A  man  who 
can  make  such  speeches  as  that  ought  never  to  die." 
The  governor  died  in  1839,  at  tne  aSe  °f  forty-eight, 
having,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  been  Mayor 
of  Charleston. 

Colonel  Arthur  P.  Hayne,  his  brother,  was  a  brave 
soldier  in  the  war  of  1812,  and  also  fought  in  the 
Creek  and  Florida  Indian  wars.  In  1858  he  en 
tered  the  United  States'  Senate  and  lived  through  the 
Civil  war  of  1861  - 1865,  dying  in  1867. 

Of  such  a  family,  eminent  in  the  political  councils 
of  South  Carolina,  and  always  ready  to  fight  for  its 
cherished  principles,  came  the  poet  Paul  H.  Hayne. 
His  father,  true  to  the  martial  instincts  of  the  family, 
was  a  lieutenant  in  the  United  States'  Navy. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  (such  is  the  poet's  full 
name)  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  on 
New  Year's  day  of  1831,  and  grew  up  in  that  famous 


176  Poets'  Homes. 

port,  perhaps  unequalled  in  the  South  for  its  curious 
combination  of  commercial  activity  and  stately  and 
aristocratic  ease.  Lieutenant  Hayne  died  at  Pen- 
sacola,  Florida,  while  Paul  was  an  infant,  leaving  his 
son  to  be  brought  up  in  the  affectionate  care  of  his 
widowed  mother. 

The  boy  was  a  happy,  hearty,  enthusiastic  lad, 
quick  to  think  and  no  dullard  at  his  books,  though 
not  "  precocious,"  in  the  sense  in  which  many  young 
poets  delight  their  parents  and  their  future  biog 
raphers.  But,  after  all,  it  is  a  greater  pleasure  to  see 
a  wholesome,  cheery  little  boy,  with  a  warm  heart 
and  a  natural  mind,  than  a  pale  little  book-worm 
accumulating  a  store  of  phenomenal  sayings  and 
doings. 

We  always  hear  of  the  precocious  boys  whose 
future  brings  the  fame  of  a  Milton  or  a  Macaulay  ; 
but  who  shall  keep  the  record  of  the  "  infant  phenom- 
enons  "  who  become  matter-of-fact  merchants  or  ma 
trons,  or  whose  careers  end  in  early  death  ? 

Thus  young  Hayne's  teachers,  while  they  soon 
saw  that  they  were  instructing  a  boy  of  more  than  or 
dinary  ability,  would  hardly  have  foretold  the  literary 
life  he  has  since  led  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  he  had  the 
poets'  traditional  hatred  of  mathematics. 

.In    the    college   of    Charleston,    however,    which 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  179 

Hayne  entered  in  1847  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he 
proved  himself  a  master  in  elocution  and  composi 
tion,  easily  surpassing  his  fellows  in  both  branches. 
The  Hayne  family  are  born  orators,  and  Paul  might 
perhaps,  have  equalled  his  uncle's  reputation  in  that 
particular  had  his  life  been  a  public  one,  and  had 
his  voice  been  stronger.  In  his  student  days  his 
manner  as  a  public  speaker  was  graceful,  his  ges 
tures  were  fit,  and  his  personal  presence  before  his 
audience  was  of  that  winning  quality  which  is  some 
times  called  magnetic.  His  voice  is  soft  and  musical, 
and,  while  it  lacks  sufficient  power  to  fill  a  large 
room,  its  effect  is  manifest,  marked  as  it  is  both  by 
emphasis  and  sympathy. 

But  the  lad,  after  the  usual  fashion  of  Southern 
youth,  learned  other  things  than  those  which  his 
tutors  could  teach  him.  When  but  eight  years  of 
age,  his  uncle,  the  famous  Governor,  taught  him  to 
shoot;  and  from  that  time  he  has  always  had  a 
hearty  liking  for  field  sports,  accounting  it  by  no 
means  his  feeblest  power  that,  on  a  return  from  the 
field,  he  can  show  at  least  as  many  trophies  as  the 
majority  of  skillful  huntsmen. 

Of  course  there  came  with  this  devotion  to  the 
field,  an  accompanying  fondness  for  horse-back  rid 
ing.  One  favorite  horse  of  his  was  a  handsome  gray 


180  Poets'  Homes. 

whose  name  of  Loyal  fitly  described  the  faithful  nat 
ure  which  the  horse  and  dog,  alone  of  our  domestic 
pets  and  servants,  seem  to  possess.  Loyal  would  ill 
brook  any  attempt  of  a  stranger  to  mount  the  saddle; 
but  to  his  master  he  was  always  gentle,  eating  out  of 
his  hand  and  following  him  about  the  yard  like  a 
dog. 

Hayne  graduated  at  the  College  of  Charleston  in 
1850,  and  soon  after  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to 
the  bar,  though  he  never  practiced.  As  to  Long 
fellow,  Lowell  and  Bryant,  literature  seemed  fairer 
than  law,  and  whiffs  from  Parnassus  persistently  blew 
through  the  office  window.  At  that  time  Mr. 
Hayne's  fortune  was  such  that  he  was  not  compelled 
to  "work  for  a  living,"  so  that  he  was  enabled  to 
write  poems  without  thoughts  of  the  butcher  and  the 
baker. 

In  1852,  the  year  after  he  attained  his  majority, 
the  young  poet  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Middleton 
Michel  of  Charleston,  the  only  daughter  of  Dr.  Wil 
liam  Michel.  Her  own  descent  is  worthy  of  remem 
brance,  her  father  having  been,  when  but  eighteen 
years  of  age,  a  surgeon  in  the  army  of  Napoleon  Bon 
aparte.  Dr.  Michel  was  wounded  at  the  battle  of 
Leipsic,  and  received  a  gold  medal  at  the  hands  of 
the  late  Emperor,  Napoleon  the  Third.  Miss  Michel's 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  18 1 

mother  was    a   descendant  of  the   Frasers   of  Scot 
land. 

In  pursuance  of  his  literary  work,  Mr.  Hayne  was 
at  various  times,  connected  with  many  periodicals  iV 
his  native  city.  In  1854  he  visited  the  North,  and  b 
the  following  year  his  first  volume  of  poems  was  pub 
lished  in  Boston.  Harper  &  Calvo,  a  Charlestoi 
publishing  firm,  put  forth  his  second  volume  in  1857, 
under  the  title  of  "  Sonnets  and  Other  Poems ;"  and 
the  young  poet  began  to  command  recognition  in  his 
more  immediate  home  and  in  the  North. 

The  literary  tastes  of  South  Carolina  are  both 
severely  critical  and  warmly  appreciative.  Critical,  be 
cause,  to  an  extent  almost  unknown  in  other  parts  of 
the  country,  the  literary  diet  of  the  educated  classes 
consists  of  Addison's  "Spectator,"  Fielding's  "Tom 
Jones,"  and  other  standard  books  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  And  appreciative,  because  the  Southern 
reader,  however  severe,  is  always  quick  to  acknowl 
edge  any  newly-discovered  merit. 

The  "  Ode  to  Sleep,  "  in  the  Charleston  volume, 
certainly  deserved  the  warm  reception  awarded  it; 
while  the  sonnets  of  which  the  book  was  chiefly  com 
posed  were,  in  conception  and  elaboration,  worthy  of 
comparison  with  the  similar  work  of  any  contempo 
rary  American  poet. 


1 82  Poets'  Homes, 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  appearance  of  his 
third  book  that  Mr.  Hayne  won  general  recognition 
at  the  North  as  a  leading  contemporary  poet.  This 
was  a  slender  volume  with  a  long  title :  "  Avolio,  a 
Legend  of  the  Island  of  Cos ;  with  Poems  Lyrical, 
Miscellaneous  and  Dramatic."  It  was  published  in 
Boston  in  1859. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Hayne  had  been  intimately  con 
nected  in  Charleston  with  an  ambitious  attempt  to 
establish,  in  the  South,  a  literary  magazine  of  the 
first  mark.  RusseVs  Magazine  was  its  title;  in  size 
and  typographical  appearance  it  was  not  unlike 
13lackwood's,  and  it  was  sustained  for  three  years 
(1857-1860)  with  good  ability.  Hayne  wrote  for 
it  constantly,  and  so  did  Henry  Timrod,  William  Gil- 
more  Simms,  William  J.  Grayson,  Samuel  H.  Dick- 
son,  and  many  another  Southern  author.  Despite  the 
hearty  enthusiasm  of  its  conductors,  the  magazine 
failed  to  win  a  financial  success,  and  it  died  the  year 
before  the  war. 

In  1861,  when  hostilities  broke  out  between  the 
North  and  the  South,  Hayne  espoused  the  Southern 
cause,  following  whither  he  was  led  by  conviction  and 
feeling,  by  personal  friendship  and  local  attachment, 
and  by  all  the  inherited  political  tendencies  of  the 
family  blood.  His  health  was  not  rugged,  but  he  was 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  185 

Assigned,  early  in  1861,  to  a  position  on  the  staff  of 
Governor  Pickens  of  South  Carolina. 

One  of  the  New  York  illustrated  papers  at  that 
time,  published  a  portrait  of  "  Paul  H.  Hayne,  Poet 
and  Litterateur ;  Aide-de-Camp  to  Governor  Pick- 
ens."  It  was  the  face  of  a  sensitive,  thoughtful,  deli 
cate,  impetuous  young  man,  of  the  kind  so  familiar 
in  both  armies;  for  the  poet's  study  and  the  pro 
fessor's  chair  furnished  many  a  recruit  to  either  side 
in  our  great  Civil  war,  as  they  likewise  did  to  the  Ger 
man  arms  in  the  Franco-Prussian  war  of  1870. 

Hayne,  too  ill  to  go  to  the  field,  was  compelled  to 
give  up  his  military  ambition,  and  for  the  next  few 
years  wrote  almost  constantly  in  support  of  what  was 
so  soon  to  become  the  "  Lost  Cause."  His  numer 
ous  war  lyrics  bore  such  titles  as  these :  "  The  Ken 
tucky  Partisan";  "My  Motherland;"  "The  Sub 
stitute  ; "  "  The  Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor ; " 
"Stonewall  Jackson;"  "The  Little  White  Glove;" 
"Our  Martyr;"  and  "Beyond  the  Potomac."  The 
last  named  was  singled  out  for  praise  by  Dr.  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  in  a  Jecture  on  the  poetry  of  the 
war. 

The  close  of  the  struggle  found  Hayne  poor  and 
sick,  but  not  utterly  disheartened.  His  beautiful 
home  in  Charleston  was  burned  just  before  the  victo- 


1 86  Poets'  Homes. 

rious  Northern  army  took  possession  of  the  city,  by 
the  bursting  of  a  bomb-shell ;  and  the  next  year  the 
poet  removed  with  his  wife,  boy,  and  mother,  to  a  se 
cluded  spot  on  the  Georgia  Railroad,  a  few  miles  out 
of  the  city  of  Augusta,  Georgia.  Here  he  has  since 
made  his  home. 

With  peace  assured  Mr.  Hayne  once  more  took 
up  his  pen  and  went  diligently  to  work,  in  a  brave 
endeavor  to  win  support  from  what,  in  earlier  years, 
had  been  a  pastime.  He  assumed,  in  1866,  the 
editorship  of  The  Augusta  Constitutionalist,  but 
utterly  broke  down  after  eight  months'  work.  Dur 
ing  1867  and  1868  he  was  associate  editor  of  The 
Southern  Opinion,  a  semi-political  paper  published 
at  Richmond,  Virginia,  by  Henry  Pollard.  Hayne 
revised  for  this  journal  a  long  series  of  "Reminis 
cences  and  Anecdotes  of  the  Late  War,"  and  wrote 
all  the  book  notices.  About  the  same  time  he  wrote 
numberless  editorials  and  reviews  for  Southern 
Society,  a  literary  weekly  published  in  Baltimore. 
This  industrious  habit  of  work  has  never  since  been 
remitted. 

In  1873  Mr.  Hayne,  accompanied  by  his  son 
William,  paid  a  visit  to  the  North,  spending  a  consid 
erable  time  both  in  Boston  and  New  York,  and  meet- 
'ng  many  old  literary  friends,  as  well  as  those  whom 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  187 

he  had  come  to  know  by  correspondence.  One  of 
the  most  pleasant  episodes  of  this  trip  was  the  visit 
paid  by  Mr.  Hayne  to  John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 
who  was  then  living  at  his  old  home  in  Amesbury. 

For  Whittier's  personal  character,  as  well  as  his 
poems,  Hayne  had  always  felt  the  sincerest  admira 
tion  ;  and  the  meeting  of  the  two  poets  was  not  the 
less  cordial  because  the  one  had  been  the  life-long 
advocate  of  freedom  for  the  slave,  while  the  other 
had  borne  arms  on  the  side  of  the  Confederacy. 

"  Legends  and  Lyric,"  the  poet's  fourth  and  best 
collection  of  poems,*  appeared  in  1872 ;  and  a  fifth 
volume  was  published  in  1876,  entitled  "The  Moun 
tain  of  the  Lovers  and  other  Poems."  In  1873  Mr. 
Hayne  edited,  with  an  appreciative  memoir,  an 
edition  of  the  poems  of  his  friend,  the  late  Henry 
Timrod. 

All  his  books  have  now  been  mentioned,  save  a 
small  volume,  published  during  the  present  year, 
containing  biographical  sketches  of  his  uncle,  Robert 
Y.  Hayne  and  Hugh  S.  Legard,  the  eminent  scholar 
and  reviewer.  These  biographies  were  written  some 
years  ago  and  published  in  The  Southern  Review. 
Mr.  Hayne  has  also  written  a  memoir  of  William 
Gilmore  Simms,  and  a  revolutionary  story  in  thirteen 


j88  Poets'  Homes. 

chapters,  neither  of  which  has  yet  been  published  in 
book  form. 

Having  briefly  sketched  the  personal  and  literary 
life  of  the  poet,  a  word  is  demanded  concerning  his 
position  in  the  literature  of  the  time.  On  the  whole, 
taking  into  view  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  work, 
Hayne  must  justly  be  called  the  chief  living  South 
ern  writer.  In  his  poems  there  is  a  fine  feeling  and 
a  daintiness  of  expression  which  greater  poets  in 
standard  English  literature  have  missed. 

His  sonnets  delighted  Leigh  Hunt ;  his  poems  of 
sentiment  and  affection  go  straight  to  the  heart ;  and 
in  his  longer  poems  of  classic  or  mediaeval  theme 
he  has  produced  narrative  verse  of  high  rank.  He 
is  content  to  be  simply  a  poet ;  and  scarcely  a  living 
writer,  in  an  age  commonly  called  "  utilitarian," 
more  serenely  pursues,  his  own  path. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  so  many  kindly  things  have 
been  said  of  him  by  the  critics.  Thus,  the  late  John 
R.  Thompson,  himself  a  fair  poet,  said  : 

"  Hayne  is  a  knight  of  chivalry,  a  troubadour,  a 
minnesinger,  misplaced  and  misunderstood,  who 
should  have  lived  ages  ago  in  Provence  or  some 
other  sunny  land.  What  I  admire  in  him  most  is  I  is 
loyalty  to  his  vocation  and  the  conscientiousness  with 
which  he  gives  voice  to  his  poetic  impulses  whether 
the  world  heeds  him  or  not." 


Paul  If.  Hayne.  t$t 

The  volume  of  "Legends  and  Lyrics"  undoubt 
edly  contains  the  poet's  best  work ;  and  in  it  the 
pieces  entitled  "The  Wife  of  Brittany"  and 
"  Daphles "  deserve  chief  mention  and  praise. 
"  Daphles "  has  been  especially  fortunate,  having 
won  the  cordial  approval  of  Jean  Ingelow,  Long 
fellow,  Holmes,  Whittier,  Whipple,  and  Richard 
Grant  White.  Mr.  Hayne's  approving  critics  seem 
divided  into  three  classes ;  the  first  giving  to  his  son 
nets  the  highest  place,  while  the  second  prefer  his 
lyrics,  and  the  third  his  narrative  poems. 

"  Copse  Hill "  is  the  name  of  the  home  which  the 
poet  has  occupied  for  the  past  twelve  years;  and, 
certainly,  the  little  house  shows  that  romance  has 
not  yet  died  out  of  the  world,  and  that  all  the  poets 
do  not  house  themselves  in  brick  walls  or  brown- 
stone  fronts. 

Mr.  Hayne's  cottage,  made  of  unseasoned  lumber 
and  neatly  white-washed,  stands  on  the  crest  of  a 
hill  in  the  midst  of  eighteen  acres  of  pine  lands, 
utterly  uncultivated  and  affording  the  solemnity  and 
seclusion  which  nature  alone  can  give.  Many  of 
Hayne's  poems  show  the  influence  of  the  Southern 
scenery  at  his  very  door. 

The  interior  of  the  cottage  is  cheery ;  for  it  has 
been  patiently  decorated  in  a  fashion  at  once  artistic 
and  homelike  by  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Hayne.  The 


192  Poets'  Homes. 

walls  were  so  uninviting  that  she  determined  to 
paper  them  with  engravings,  carefully  selected  from 
the  current  periodicals  of  the  day. 

The  room  in  which  Mr.  Hayne  works,  as  now 
adorned,  is  fairly  entitled  to  be  described  by  that 
most  aristocratic  of  adjectives,  unique.  Pictures  of 
eminent  men,  views  of  noted  places,  and  scenes  of 
public  interest  are  so  arranged  as  to  leave  no  break 
on  the  walls.  The  mantel  and  doors,  even,  are  cov 
ered  with  pictures,  some  of  them  framed  in  paper 
trimmings  cut  from  the  journals  of  fashion. 

Mr.  Hayne's  library  consists  of  some  two  thousand 
volumes,  partly  saved  from  his  original  valuable  col 
lection  of  books,  but  accumulated  for  the  most  part 
by  his  labors  as  a  book-reviewer.  His  desk,  at 
which  he  always  stands  while  writing,  is  made  out  of 
the  two  ends  of  the  work-bench  used  in  building  the 
cottage.  Mrs.  Hayne  has  contrived  to  transform  it 
into  an  antique  bit  of  furniture.  The  little  book 
cases  near  by  are  made  of  boxes,  partly  covered  with 
pictures  like  the  walls  of  the  room. 

In  person,  Hayne  is  of  slight  figure  and  medium 
height,  having  piercing  eyes,  full  lips  and  a  dark 
complexion.  In  manner  he  is  inclined  to  be  quiet 
and  reserved.  All  his  life  he  has  been  in  somewhat 
feeble  health,  especially  as  regards  his  lungs. 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  193 

"I  have  never  known,"  he  says,  "since  I  was  six 
teen,  what  it  is  to  feel  perfectly  well."  But  he  works 
assiduously,  even  to  the  indulgence  of  that  -habit  of 
enthusiastic  poets  —  getting  up  at  night  to  capture  a 
fleeting  idea. 

It  will  not  be  an  unwarrantable  intrusion  into  this 
happy  home  —  most  inaccessible  of  all  the  abodes  of 
American  authors  —  to  copy  here  Mr.  Hayne's 
hearty  and  helpful  lines  to  his  only  son.  "  Will  "  is 
a  boy  no  longer ;  but  advancing  years  have  no  power 
to  dim  such  affection  between  father  and  son  : 

"MY  SON  WILL. 

"  Your  face,  my  boy,  when  six  months  old 

We  propped  you,  laughing,  in  a  chair, 
And  the  sun-artist  caught  the  gold 

Which  rippled  o'er  your  waving  hair, 
And  deftly  shadowed  forth,  the  while, 
That  blooming  cheek,  that  roguish  smile, 

Those  dimples  seldom  still ; 
The  tiny,  wondering,  wide-eyed  elf !  — 
Now,  can  you  recognize  yourself 
In  that  small  portrait,  Will  ? 

"  I  glance  at  it,  then  turn  to  you, 

Where  in  your  healthful  ease  you  stanJ 
No  beauty,  but  a  youth  as  true, 
As  pure,  as  any  in  the  land ! 
For  Nature,  through  fair  sylvan  ways, 
Hath  led  and  gladdened  all  your  days, 


194  Poets'  Homes. 

Kept  free  from  sordid  ill ; 
Hath  filled  your  veins  with  blissful  fire, 
And  winged  your  instincts  to  aspire 

Sunward  and  Godward,  Will ! 

"  Long-limbed  and  lusty,  with  a  stride 
That  leaves  me  many  a  pace  behind. 
You  roam  the  woodlands,  far  and  wide, 

You  quaff  great  draughts  of  country  wind 
While  tree  and  wild-flower,  lake  and  stream, 
Deep  shadowy  nook,  and  sunshot  gleam, 

Cool  vale  and  far-off  hill, 
Each  plays  its  mute  mysterious  part 
In  that  strange  growth  of  mind  and  heart 
I  joy  to  witness,  Will. 

"  '  Can  this  tall  youth,'  I  sometimes  say, 
'  Be  mine,  my  so n  ?'     It  surely  seems 
Scarce  further  backward  than  a  day, 

Since,  watching  o'er  your  feverish  dreams 
In  that  child-illness  of  the  brain, 
I  thought  (  O  Christ,  with  what  keen  painl ) 

Your  pulse  would  soon  be  still, 
That  all  your  boyish  sports  were  o'er, 
And  I,  heart-broken,  never  more 
Should  call  or  clasp  you,  Will ! 

"  But  Heaven  was  kind,  Death  passed  you  bj 

And  now  upon  your  arm  I  lean, 
My  second  self,  of  clearer  eye, 

Of  finer  nerve,  and  sturdier  mien  ; 
Through  you,  methinks,  my  long-lost  youth 
Revives,  from  whose  sweet  founts  of  truth 

And  joy  I  drink  my  fill ; 
I  feel  your  every  heart-throb,  know 


Paul  H.  Hayne.  195 


What  inmost  hopes  within  you  glow  ; 
One  soul's  between  us,  Will ! 


"  Pray  Heaven  that  this  be  always  so  ; 

That  even  on  your  soul  and  mine, 
Though  my  thin  locks  grow  white  as  snow, 

The  self-same  radiant  trust  may  shine. 
Pray  that  while  this,  my  life,  endures, 
It  aye  may  sympathize  with  yours 

In  thought,  aim,  action,  still ; 
That  you,  O  son  ( till  comes  the  end  ) 
In  me  may  find  your  comrade,  friend, 
And  more  tlian  father,  Will  I  " 


J.  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


y  Mac  and  O'  ""v         :  - 

Ye  well  may  know 
True  Irishmen  alway." 

Thus   says  the   old  proverb  ;  and  true 
Irishman,  from  his  crown  of  black   hair  to 
the  feet  which   take  him  over  the  ground 
in  soldierly  strides,  is  John  Boyle  O'Reilly, 
the  poet  whose  name  heads  this  paper. 

It  is  natural  enough  that    his  step   should    be    soldierly ; 
for  it  is  not  many  years  since  the  fingers  that   now  hold  his 
pen  were  familiar  with  the  sabre   hilt,  and  since  the  feet,  that 
196 


y.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  197 

now  tread  the  quiet  streets  of  Boston,  obeyed  the  call 
of  the  bugle  in  an  English  barrack.  That  was  in 
the  days  when  the  poet-editor  was  a  Revolutionist, 
working  for  Ireland's  independence,  and  working  as 
many  another  Irishman  has  done  in  vain. 

He  was  but  nineteen  years  old  in  those  days.  He 
is  thirty-four  now,  graver  and  calmer  in  manner,  but 
scarcely  less  eager  to  enter  into  a  fight  for  principles 
and  for  men  that  he  loves. 

He  was  born  in  1844  in  Dowth  Castle,  County  Meath, 
and  grew  up  there,  studying  from  books  with  his  father 
and  mother,  and  from  their  store  of  legends  and 
songs  with  the  peasantry  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
learning  from  both  to  love  Ireland,  the  oppressed, 
the  beloved,  the  little  black  rose  or  dark  Rosaleen,  of 
whom  her  sons  sing  in  the  ballad : 

"The  judgment  hour  must  first  be  nigh 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 
My  dark  Rosaleen." 

He  did  not  stay  at  home  many  years.  Irish  boys 
are  worse  than  Yankees  for  running  away  and  estab 
lishing  themselves  in  life ;  and  when  very  young  he 
found  himself  in  England,  working  sometimes  as  a 
printer  and  sometimes  as  a  reporter  on  the  papers  in 
the  manufacturing  districts,  and  acquiring  that  inti 
mate  knowledge  of  workingmen,  and  that  sympa- 


198  Poets'  Homes. 

thy  with  them  which  still   clings  to  him,  and  is  only 
less  strong  than  his  national  enthusiasm. 

-  But  his  native  land  was  still,  first  in  his  heart,  and 
in  1863  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to  her  service, 
and  enlisted  in  the  Tenth,  Prince  of  Wales'  Hussars  ] 
not  to  fight  for  England,  but  to  plot  for  Ireland.  At 
that  time,  wherever  half  a  dozen  Irishmen  were  gath 
ered  together,  one  of  them,  at  least,  was  sure  to  be  a 
Fenian,  or  Irish  Republican,  pledged  to  secure  liberty 
for  his  country.  For  three  years  O'Reilly  worked 
with  these  men,  and,  while  outwardly  a  well-drilled, 
obedient  soldier,  clothed  in  "England's  cruel  red," 
he  never  ceased  to  plan  for  the  day  when  the  '•  wear 
ing  of  the  green"  might  again  be  permitted. 

The  time  came  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  blow 
might  be  struck,  and  Ireland  might  be  free.  But,  as 
has  happened  scores  of  times  before  in  her  history, 
the  plot  for  her  deliverance  was  betrayed  by  a  spy, 
and  the  men  who  would  have  broken  her  chains 
were  arrested  for  high  treason  and  thrown  into  prison. 
For  days  all  Ireland  was  in  a  state  of  terror,  as 
warrant  after  warrant  was  served  and  cell  after  cell 
filled  by  her  patriot  sons.  And  then  came  the  trials 
and  the  sentences,  and  Mr.  O'Reilly  found  himself 
doomed  to  imprisonment  for  life.  His  punishment  was 
afterwards  commuted  to  twenty  years.  But  when  one 


J.  Boyle  O'Reilly,  199 

is  young  one  does  not  see  much  difference  between 
a  score  of  years  and  the  rest  of  one's  days  on  earth, 
and  he  hardly  recognized  the  change  as  merciful. 

England's  prisons  were  crowded  that  year,  and  he 
was  successively  an  inmate  of  Chatham,  Portsmouth, 
Portland  and  Dartmoor,  before  he  was  sent  to  Aus 
tralia.  At  Dartmoor,  he  and  his  brother  Republicans 
had  the  sad  pleasure  of  performing  the  last  offices 
for  the  American  prisoners-of-war,  who  were  shot  in 
cold  blood  in  1814  by  their  British  guards.  The 
bodies  of  the  slain  had  keen  flung  into  shallow 
graves,  and  when  O'Reilly  and  his  comrades  were  in 
the  prison,  the  bones  of  the  Americans  lay  bleaching 
on  the  ground  in  one  of  the  prison  yards,  having 
been  dragged  from  their  resting-place  by  the  prison 
pigs.  The  Irish  Republicans  collected  and  buried 
them,  and  carved  "  Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  f  atria 
moriri"  on  the  rude  stone  with  which  they  were 
allowed  to  mark  the  grave,  perhaps  wondering,  as 
they  did  so,  whether  anyone  would  do  as  much  for 
them  should  they  die  while  in  prison. 

In  1867  they  were  sent  to  Australia,  "  a  land 
blessed  by  God  and  blighted  by  man,"  as  Mr.  O'Reilly 
says ;  and  there  they  were  set  to  work  in  gangs  mak 
ing  roads.  But  the  sturdy  young  fellow  whose 
boyhood  was  passed  in  sight  of  the  Boyne  with 


200  Poets'  Homes. 

its  bitter  memories  of  defeat  by  the  English,  and 
whose  youth  had  been  given  to  plotting  against 
England,  did  not  sit  down  contented  as  her  prisoner. 
From  the  day  when  he  first  set  foot  on  Australian 
soil  he  began  to  make  plans  to  escape ;  and  over 
and  over  again  he  tried,  only  to  be  defeated. 

He  learned  to  love  "  that  fair  land  and  drear  land 
in  the  South,"  with  its  soft  climate  and  strange  scent 
less  flowers  and  bright  songless  birds.  But  he  could 
not  be  content  in  captivity,  and  at  last,  in  February, 
1869,  he  put  to  sea  in  an  open  boat,  and,  after  days 
of  privation  and  peril,  was  picked  up  by  the  Ameri 
can  whaler,  Gazelle,  of  New  Bedford,  Captain  David 
R.  Gifford. 

Now  began  a  new  life  for  the  young  Irishman.  A 
life  made  up  of  long  days  of  watching  for  whales  and 
spinning  yarns,  such  as  only  whalers  can  spin,  and 
other  days  that  seemed  too  short  for  all  the  work  and 
adventure  that  were  crowded  into  them,  while  whales 
were  captured  and  their  precious  oil  stored  away  in 
the  hold.  He  remained  on  the  whaler  until  August, 
and  then  an  American  ship,  the  Sapphire,  of  Boston, 
bound  for  Liverpool,  hove  in  sight,  and  Captain  Gif 
ford  put  O'Reilly  aboard  her,  giving  him  the  papers 
of  a  shipwrecked  sailor,  and  lending  him  twenty  guin 
eas,  all  the  money  that  he  had. 


y.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  201 

"  But  if  I'm  recaptured  in  Liverpool  you'll  never 
get  the  money  again,"  remonstrated  the  Irishman. 

"All  right,"  said  the  Yankee  ;  "if  they  take  you  I 
can  do  without  it.  If  you  reach  America  I  think  I'll 
get  it  again." 

In  September  O'Reilly  landed  in  Liverpool ;  but 
soon  found  himself  in  danger  and  sailed  for  America, 
landing  in  Philadelphia  and  going  to  New  York. 
Here  he  lectured  once  or  twice,  and  sold  some  maga 
zine  articles  to  buy  clothes,  and  in  1870  came  to 
Boston,  not  knowing  a  soul  in  New  England. 

Looking  about  for  something  to  do,  Mr.  O'Reilly 
naturally  found  his  way  to  the  newspaper  offices,  and 
soon  had  a  position  on  the  Pilot,  at  a  salary  which, 
although  small  at  first,  was  soon  increased.  His 
countrymen  made  him  welcome  to  their  homes,  and 
his  poems,  which  he  soon  began  to  publish,  made 
him  friends  among  Americans  ;  and  in  a  year  or  two 
he  found  himself  prosperous  and  growing  famous. 
Then  he  married  a  wife,  whose  sole  care  since  her 
wedding-day  has  been  to  make  her  poet's  home  what 
it  should  be.  And  since  then,  it  has  seemed  as  if  for 
tune  were  striving  in  every  way  to  make  up  to  him 
for  the  pain  of  his  enforced  exile. 

He  is  now  the  owner  of  one-fourth  of  the  Pilot,  the 
Other  three-quarters  belonging  to  the  Archbishop  of 


2O2  Poets' 


Boston,  and  is  its  sole  editor  ;  so  that  he  enjoys  an 
independence  that  makes  him  the  envy  of  all  his 
brother  journalists.  Among  Irishmen  the  influence 
of  the  paper  is  wonderful,  and  is  used  with  the  aim 
of  making  them  good  American  citizens. 

This  year  Mr.  O'Reilly  has  been  chosen  President 
of  the  Papyrus  Club,  the  organization  to  which  the 
younger  poets,  magazine  writers,  and  editors  in  the 
city  of  Boston  belong  ;  and  also  of  the  Press  Club, 
of  which  all  the  newspaper  men  are  members  by 
right  of  office. 

Change  of  fortune  has  not  altered  him  much  in 
manner,  and  seems  to  have  made  little  difference  in 
his  disposition.  He  still  sits  silent  in  company, 
immovable  except  as  to  his  restless  dark  eyes,  until 
somebody  asks  him  a  question  ;  but  then  the  heavy 
brows  are  lifted,  the  head  is  raised,  and  the  answer 
comes  usually  in  the  Milesian  form  of  another  ques 
tion,  sometimes  paradoxical,  sometimes  a  little  dog 
matic,  but  always  striking.  Unless  one  wants  to 
rouse  him  to  vehemence,  it  is  best  to  avoid  say 
ing  anything  snobbish,  and,  above  all,  not  to  insin 
uate  that  his  beloved  workingmen  are  not  perfect  ; 
and  it  is  also  well  not  to  say  anything  against  Ireland. 
Of  his  country  he  sings  : 


y.  Boyle  CfReilly.  305 

"  My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief  ! 
My  land  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 
For  verdure,  vale  or  river,  flower  or  leaf  — 
If  first  to  no  man  else,  thou'rt  first  to  me. 
New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the  first 
Is  deepest  yet  —  the  mother's  breath  and  smiles ; 
Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I  was  nursed 
Is  my  poor  land  —  the  Niobe  of  Isles." 

Mr.  O'Reilly's  home  is  in  the  Charlestown  district 
of  Boston,  in  a  house  facing  Winthrop  Park  and  the 
soldiers'  monument,  the  work  of  his  countryman, 
Milmore.  Most  of  his  poetical  work  is  done  in  his 
study,  a  long  room  occupying  half  of  the  first  floor. 

The  arrangement  of  the  room  shows  a  hundred 
signs  of  womanly  taste,  and  its  planning  is  really 
more  his  wife's  work  than  his  own,  although  it  suits 
him  perfectly.  The  moldings  and  panelings  of  the 
walls  are  of  a  warm  crimson,  repeated  in  the  heavy 
curtains  and  the  cover  of  the  long  desk  at  one  end 
of  the  room,  and  in  the  comfortable  lounge  that  in 
vites  him  to  rest  when  he  has  worked  too  long.  A 
book-case,  containing  the  volumes  that  he  needs  for 
reference,  stands  at  the  left  of  his  chair,  and  another 
fills  the  space  between  the  chimneys.  Upon  the  top 
of  the  latter  are  statuettes,  vases  and  small  pictures 
innumerable,  and  others  line  the  walls ;  each  one 
having  a  history  for  its  owner,  not  ancestral,  but 
of  his  own  talent  and  energy. 


206  Poets'  Homes. 


At  his  right  hand,  where  he  can  see  it  whenever 
he  glances  up,  is  a  little  picture  of  Dowth  Castle, 
made  for  him  by  his  brother  poet,  Dr.  Joyce  ;  and 


J.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  209 

not  far  off  is  an  engraving  of  a  French  picture  of  mil 
itary  life,  on  which  his  eyes  rest  fondly  now  and 
then,  as  he  recalls  the  old  days  of  peril  and  plotting. 

Here  come  his  three  black-haired  little  girls  to  ask 
papa's  advice  on  various  profound  topics,  and  are 
chased  out  by  mamma,  only  to  return  again  and 
coax  for  an  answer,  and  to  receive  it,  no  matter  what 
becomes  of  the  rhymes  meanwhile.  Here,  too,  in 
the  evening,  come  the  Papyrus  men  to  chat,  to  dis 
cuss  their  coming  poems  and  books,  and,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  to  smoke  while  they  talk  until  long 
after  midnight. 

Up-stairs  are  his  wife's  parlor,  the  nursery  whither 
his  babies  beguile  him  as  often  as  they  can,  and  the 
bed-rooms.  But  the  study  is  the  favorite  resort  of 
all  the  family,  and  there  Mrs.  O'Reilly  does  her  own 
literary  work  ;  for  she  has  her  share  in  her  husband's 
labors,  and  edits  a  department  in  the  Pilot. 

His  journalistic  work  is  done  in  the  queerest  little 
den  ever  seen  —  a  tiny  room  in  the  fourth  story  of 
the  Pilot  building ;  made  tinier  by  being  lined  with 
book-cases,  and  by  a  litter  of  old  newspapers  and 
magazines. "  His  desk  is  a  wild  confusion  of  first 
proofs,  "revises,"  copy,  slips  cut  from  exchanges, 
old  letters,  poems,  and  leading  articles  for  the  Pilot, 
and  piles  of  dust ;  for  the  office-boy  would  sooner 


aio  Poets'  Homes. 

think  of  dropping  out  of  the  window  than  he  would 
dare  to  touch  anything  in  the  room  higher  than  the 
floor. 

Once,  when  Mr.  O'Reilly  was  away,  one  of  hie 
assistants,  struck  by  the  forlorn  appearance  of  tin 
den,  had  it  put  in  order.  "  And  what  do  you  think," 
says  the  poet,  "  he  had  the  paint  washed !  And  I 
had  a  lot  of  valuable  memoranda  scribbled  on  my 
window-frame,  and  he  had  them  all  washed  off,  and 
I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  they  were  1 " 

This  sad  affair  happened  three  years  ago,  and 
since  then,  if  office  tradition  can  be  credited,  no  gim 
ilar  vandalism  has  been  committed. 

The  first  volume  of  Mr.  O'Reilly's  poems,  "  Soiiga 
from  the  Southern  Seas,"  was  published  in  1873  ; 
his  second,  "  Songs,  Legends  and  Ballads,"  which 
includes  the  first,  in  1878.  The  title  of  the  latter  is 
a  very  good  description  of  its  contents ;  for  Mr. 
O'Reilly's  poetry  is  of  many  kinds.  The  longest  is 
"The  King  of  the  Vasse,"  an  Australian  legend,  into 
which  are  woven  descriptions  of  that  scenery  which 
makes  Northern  lands  seem  cold  and  pallid  to  him 
who  has  once  beheld  it.  This  is  the  picture  of  the 
forest : 

"The  shadows  darken  'nealh  the  tall  trees'  screen, 
While  round  their  steins  the  rank  and  velvet  green 


y.  Boyle  O'Reilly.  211 

Of  undergrowth  is  deeper  still ;  and  there 
Within  the  double  shade  and  steaming  air, 
The  scarlet  palm  has  fixed  its  noxious  root, 
And  hangs  the  glorious  poison  of  its  fruit ; 
And  there,  'mid  shaded  green  and  shaded  light, 
The  steel-blue  silent  birds  take  rapid  flight 
From  earth  to  tree  and  tree  to  earth  ;  and  there 
The  crimson-plumaged  parrot  cleaves  the  air 
Like  flying  fire,  and  huge  brown  owls  awake 
To  watch,  far  down,  the  stealing  carpet-snake 
Fresh  skinned  and  glowing  in  his  changing  dyes, 
With  evil  wisdom  in  the  cruel  eyes 
That  glint  like  gems,  as  o'er  his  head  flits  by 
The  blue-black  armor  of  the  emperor-fly. 


And  high  o'erhead  is  color;  round  and  round 
The  towering  gums  and  tuads  closely  wound 
Like  cables,  creep  the  climbers  to  the  sun, 
And  over  all  the  reaching  branches  run 
And  hang,  and  still  send  shoots  that  climb  and  wind 
Till  every  arm  and  spray  and  leaf  is  twined, 
And  miles  of  trees,  like  brethren  joined  in  love, 
Are  drawn  and  laced ;  while  round  them  and  above, 
When  all  is  knit,  the  creeper  rests  for  days, 
As  gathering  mignt,  and  then  one  blinding  blaze 
Of  very  glory  sends,  in  wealth  and  strength 
Of  scarlet  flowers,  o'er  the  forest's  length." 


Among  the  other  poems  are  several  that  relate 
horrible  stories  in  a  powerful  fashion,  such  as  "  The 
Dukite  Snake,  "  the  tale  of  a  poor  settler  who  killed 
one  of  the  'dreadful  red  serpents  of  Australia,  and 
came  home  the  next  day  to  find  that  its  mate  had 


212  Poets'  Homes. 

killed  his  wife  and  child,  "The  Dog  Guard,"  and 
"  Haunted  by  Tigers."  Then  there  are  "  Uncle 
Ned's  Tales,"  soldiers'  stories  of  fighting;  poems 
written  for  St.  Patrick's  day  and  for  the  Emmet  Cen 
tennial  ;  and  a  fierce  outburst  of  wrath  published  a 
short  time  ago,  when  some  of  his  brother  Fenians 
were  released,  some  of  them  only  just  in  time  to  die. 
The  pieces  entitled  "  The  Wail  of  Two  Cities,"  and 
commemorative  of  the  Chicago  and  Boston  fires  are 
very  good,  and  the  latter  was  selected  by  Mr.  Long 
fellow  for  his  "  Poems  of  Places  "  as  the  best  thing 
written  on  the  subject.  It  runs  thus  : 

"O  broad  breasted  Queen  among  Nations  I 

O  mother,  so  strong  in  thy  youth ! 
Has  the  Lord  looked  upon  thee  in  ire, 
And  willed  thou  be  chastened  with  fire, 

Without  any  ruth  ?  , 

"  Has  the  Merciful  tired  of  His  mercy, 
And  turned  from  thy  sinning  in  wrath, 

That  the  world  with  raised  hands  sees  and  pities 

Thy  desolate  daughters,  thy  cities, 
Despoiled  on  their  path  ? 

"  One  year  since  thy  youngest  was  stricken ; 

Thy  eldest  lies  stricken  to-day. 
A  h,  God  I  was  thy  wrath  without  pity, 
To  tear  the  strong  heart  from  our  cfty, 

And  cast  it  away? 


y.  Boyle  CFReitty.  213 

•'OP  aiher,  forgive  us  our  doubting  ; 

The  stain  from  our  weak  souls  efface  ; 
Thou  rebukest,  we  know,  but  to  chasten  ; 
Thy  hand  has  but  fallen  to  hasten 

Return  to  thy  grace. 

"  Let  us  rise  purified  from  our  ashes, 
As  sinners  have  risen  who  grieved ; 

Let  us  show  that  twice-sent  desolation, 

On  every  true  heart  in  the  nation 
Has  conquest  achieved." 

A  few  of  the  songs  are  freighted  with  a  moral,  and 
of  these  the  best  ends  thus : 

"  Like  a  tide  our  work  should  rise, 

Each  later  wave  the  best. 
To-day  is  a  king  in  disguise, 

To-day  is  the  special  test. 

•'  Like  a  sawyer's  work  is  life, 

The  present  makes  the  flaw ; 
And  the  only  field  for  strife 

Is  the  inch  before  the  saw." 

There  is  only  one  more  thing  to  be  told  about  Mr. 
O'Reilly,  and  that  is,  the  reason  why,  for  the  last  few 
years,  his  countrymen  have  seemed  to  put  more  faith 
in  him  than  in  anyone  else.  It  is  not  his  poetry  or 
his  patriotism  that  has  won  him  this  regard,  although 
both  count  for  much  with  Irishmen.  Higher  than 
genius,  more  difficult  in  the  tasks  that  it  imposes  than 
devotion  to  one's  country,  is  the  unselfishness  that 
can  give  up  wealth  without  a  hope  of  reward.  And 
Mr.  O'Reilly  has  shown,  and  is  showing,  that  he  pos 
sesses  that  gift. 


214  Poets'  Homes, 

When  the  Pilot  fell  into  his  hands  and  the  Arch 
bishop's,  its  former  owner  was  indebted  to  hundreds 
of  poor  persons,  and,  having  lost  all  his  property,  had 
no  hope  of  paying  them.  But  the  prelate  and  the 
poet  assumed  the  task,  and  the  profits  of  the  paper, 
instead  of  going  to  its  rightful  owners,  are  used  for 
defraying  the  claims  of  these  poor  creditors.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that,  throughout  the  diocese  of  Boston: 
the  Archbishop  is  regarded  with  double  reverence . 
and  that  next  to  him,  in  the  hearts  and  the  prayers 
of  the  poor,  stands  John  Doyle  O'Reilly,  the  poet? 


REV.  DR.  S.  F.  SMITH. 


SAMUE1 
Francis 

Smith,  the  authoi 
of  our  National 
Hymn  "America," 
was  borri  at  the 
North  End,  Boston, 
under  the  sound  oi 
old  Christ  Church 
chimes,  October  2 1, 
1808.  He  attended 

the  Latin  School,  from  which,  in  1825,  (having  been 
a  medal  scholar)  he  entered  Harvard  College,  in  the 
same  class  with  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  the  late 
Judges  B.  R.  Curtis  and  G.  T.  Bigelow,  -James  Free 
man  Clarke,  and  Chandler  Robbins.  Josiah  Quincy 
became  President  of  the  College  in  their  last 

215 


THE    FAVORITE    CORNER. 


216  Poets'  Homes, 

year.  George  Ticknor  was  one  of  their  teachers, 
and  Charles  Sumner  (1830),  John  Lothrop  Motley 
and  Wendell  Phillips  (1831)  were  in  the  classes 
next  below  them.  Mr.  Smith  passed  from  Cam 
bridge  to  the  Andover  Theological  Seminary,  in 
the  beautiful  town  of  that  name.  This  was  an  out 
growth  of  the  famous  Phillips  Academy,  at  whose 
centenary,  last  summer,  Dr.  Holmes  delivered  the 
poem,  and  about  which  he  and  others  have,  of  late 
years,  told  such  interesting  stories.  Professor  Stuart 
and  his  early  colleagueb  in  the  Seminary  were  then  at 
the  height  of  their  usefulness  and  fame.  In  the  class 
above  Mr.  Smith  was  the  since  renowned  theologian, 
Professor  Park  ;  in  the  class  that  entered  next,  the 
late  Professor  Hackett. 

Upon  graduating,  in  1832,  Mr.  Smith  engaged  for 
a  year  in  editorial  labor.  He  was  ordained  to  the 
ministry  in  February,  1834,  and  went  to  Waterville, 
Me.,  preaching  as  pastor  in  the  Baptist  church,  and 
becoming  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  the 
college  there.  After  eight  years  thus  spent,  he  moved 
to  the  village  of  Newton  Centre,  Mass.,  which  has 
ever  since  been  his  home.  For  seven  years  he  was 
editor  of  the  "Christian  Review,"  and  for  twelve  years 
and  a  half,  until  July,  1854,  he  was  a  pastor  there. 

During  his  subsequent  residence  he  has  been  occu- 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  2'ig 

pied  in  general  literary  pursuits,  and  in  editorial  labor, 
largely  in  the  service  of  Christian  Missions,  to  which 
he  has  also  seen  a  useful  and  honored  son  devote 
himself  in  India. 

Mr.  Edwin  P.  Whipple  has  observed  that :  "Some 
of  the  most  popular  and  most  quoted  poems  in  our 
Uterature  are  purely  accidental  hits,  and  their  authors 
are  rather  nettled  than  pleased  that  their  other  pro 
ductions  should  be  neglected  while  such  prominence 
is  given  to  one  " — instancing  T.  W.  Parsons,  and  his 
"  Lines  on  a  Bust  of  Dante."  It  was  once  intimated 
to  me  by  a  member  of  Dr.  Smith's  family,  not  that  the 
author  of  "America"  desired  prominence  for  other 
strokes  of  his  pen,  but  that  he  was  sometimes  a  little 
weary  with  that  accorded  to  the  one  which  is  so  often 
and  so  heartily  sung.  But  Dr.  Smith  has  probably 
settled  down  to  his  fate,  with  which,  indeed,  it  would 
be  particularly  vain  to  strive,  since  the  .frequent  occa 
sions  of  using  the  national  hymn  furnished  by  the 
war,  have  been  so  quickly  followed  by  those  of  patri- 
totic  centenary  observances.  Very  appropriately,  too, 
the  effort  to  save  the  Old  South  has  enlisted  our 
poets,  drawing  attention  to  the  history  of  some  of  their 
early  famous  poems,  and  thus  seated  these  all  the 
more  firmly  in  popular  interest. 

Long  will  be  remembered,  by  all  who  were  so  fortu- 


220  Poets'  Homes. 

nate  as  to  attend  it,  the  entertainment  given  in  those 
old  walls,  on  the  evening  of  May  4th,  1877.  Gover 
nor  Rice  presided,  and  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  and  Drs.  J.  F.  Clarke,  S.  F.  Smith, 
and  O.  W.  Holmes,  the  three  college  classmates,  read 
and  spoke  on  the  occasion. 

Dr.  Smith  told  the  story  of  "America."  The  late 
Mr.  William  C.  Woodbridge,  he  said,  brought  from 
Germany  many  years  ago,  a  number  of  books  used  in 
schools  there,  containing  words  and  music,  and  com 
mitted  them  to  the  late  Dr.  Lowell  Mason,  who  placed 
them  in  Dr.  Smith's  hands,  asking  him  to  translate 
anything  he  might  find  worthy,  or,  if  he  preferred,  to 
furnish  original  words  to  such  of  the  music  as  might 
please  him.  It  was  among  this  collection  that  on  a 
gloomy  February  day  in  1832,  the  student  at  Ando- 
ver  found  its  present  music  for  the  song  he  had  there 
composed  in  that  year.  It  may  here  be  observed  that 
much  discussion  has  occurred  in  England,  within  a 
year,  as  to  the  origin  of  this  air,  which,  in  1815,  it  is 
said,  served  for  the  national  anthem  in  England,  in 
Prussia  and  in  Russia,  it  being  superseded  in  the 
latter  country  only  about  a  generation  ago.  "  Like 
the  English  constitution,"  remarked  the  Daily  News, 
"it  has  gone  through  a  series  of  developments,  and 
such  a  history  is  not  unbecoming  in  the  case  of  a  truly 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  221 

national  air."  It  has  sometimes  been  claimed  that 
Handel  composed  and  introduced  it  into  England, 
but  the  researches  of  Chappell,  and  of  the  Germans, 
Fink  and  Chrysander,  Handel's  biographer,  agree  in 
ascribing  the  original  strain  to  the  Englishman,  Henry 

Carey  (169 1743)*  who  has  another  title  to  fame 

in  the  authorship  of  "  Sally  in  our  Alley." 

Before  Dr.  Smith  fulfilled  his  part  on  the  pro 
gramme  at  the  Old  South  entertainment,  by  reciting 
"America,"  he  said  that  on  returning  from  a  year's 
wandering  in  Europe,  some  time  since,  he  was  asked 
if  any  country  had  supplanted  his  own  in  his  regard. 
To  this  inquiry  he  read  to  the  audience  a  poetical 
reply  entitled  "My  Native  Land."  It  contains  six 
stanzas,  of  which  the  following  are  the  first  and  third  : 


We  wander  far  o'er  land  and  sea 

We  seek  the  old  and  new, 
We  try  the  lowly  and  the  great, 

The  many  and  the  few ; 
O'er  states  at  hand  and  realms  remote, 

With  curious  quest  we  roam, 
But  find  the  fairest  spot  on  earth 

Just  in  our  native  home. 


222  Poefs'  Homes. 

We  seek  for  landscapes  fair  and  grand, 

Seen  through  sweet  summer  haze, 
Helvetia's  mountains,  piled  with  snow, 

Italia's  sunset  rays, 
And  lake,  and  stream,  and  crag,  and  dell. 

And  new  and  fairer  flowers  — 
We  own  them  rich  and  fair — but  not 

More  grand,  inore  fair  than  ours. 

These  stanzas  have  been  given  as  a  natural  preface 
to  a  slight  sketch  of  Dr.  Smith's  surroundings  in  the 
town  where  he  dwells  ;  for  though  he  speaks  in  them 
of  the  beauties  of  his  whole  country,  yet  it  may  well 
be  believed  that  the  landscape  charms  of  Newton 
Centre,  as  well  as  nearly  forty  years  of  residence 
there,  conspire  to  make  it  for  him  the  dearest  spot  of 
the  land. 

The  landscape  tempts  us  out  of  doors,  but  first  we 
?vill  glance  about  the  poet's  home.  Leaving  the  parlor 
NQ  cross  the  hall  and  pass  into  a  drawing  room,  in 
rear  of  which  is  a  side-entrance  passage,  beyond 
which  is  another  pleasant  apartment.  In  the 
rear  of  the  room  first  entered,  containing  various 
interesting  souvenirs  of  European  travel,  and  one 
book-case,  is  the  library  proper,  which  has  its  walls, 
where  the  books  allow  them  to  be  seen  at  all,  covered 
with  a  warm  scarlet  paper.  The  heat  diffused  over 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  225 

the  house  by  a  furnace,  can  at  any  time,  for  comfort  or 
delight,  be  reinforced  by  the  open  fires  which  poets 
especially  love  for  their  reveries.  Whoever  is  wel 
comed  to  the  dining-room  of  this  hospitable  home  will 
find  good  cheer  and  quaint  china.  The  mention  of 
the  last  recalls  to  me  that  in  the  parlor  is  a  relic  of 
that  possessed  by  Charles  Sumner,  and  given  to  Dr. 
Smith  by  his  friend,  the  Hon.  William  Claflin.  When 
Dr.  Smith  alluded,  in  his  modest  way,  to  the  atten 
tions  paid  him  in  his  visit  to  Washington  in  October, 
1877,  about  which  I  had  read  in  the  papers,  I  could 
only  think,  "Who,  if  not  he,  should  be  an  honored 
guest  in  the  capital  of  the  nation  ?" 

Certainly  there  is  no  other  man  among  us  whose 
words  are  so  often  read  and  sung  east  and  west,  north 
and  south  —  thrilling  all  the  instincts  of  patriotism. 
The  study  is  full  of  interesting  objects.  The 
large  picture  suspended  above  the  open  grate  is 
a  very  old  and  beautiful  painting  of  the  Holy  Family 
by  one  of  the  old  masters  —  probably  a  Murillo  —  in 
excellent  preservation.  The  stone  lion  on  the  right 
side  of  the  grate  is  a  carving,  a  foot  and  a  half  in 
height,  brought  from  the  steps  of  an  idol  temple  in 
Burmah,  where  it  stood  guard  in  former  years.  On 
the  opposite  side  is  a  reclining  Burldh,  of  polished 
marble,  rare  and  very  beautiful,  from  the  same  coun- 


226  Poets'  Homes. 

try.  On  the  top  of  the  bookcase  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  library  is  a  small,  but  very  fine,  bust  of  Milton  \ 
on  the  right,  a  massive  elephant's  tooth,  and  on 
the  left,  the  skull  of  a  man-eating  tiger,  which  in 
his  life  time  was  known  to  have  feasted  on  the  flesh  of 
several  victims.  On  one  of  the  two  bookcases  on 
the  intermediate  side  of  the  library  is  a  sitting 
Buddh,  carved  in  white  marble.  The  tall,  old-fash 
ioned  clock  in  one  of  the  corners  has  been  ar 
heir-loom  in  the  family  a  hundred  and  fifteen  years 
The  most-used  chair  in  the  room  was  the  property 
more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  of  a  clergymar 
of  the  northern  part  of  Middlesex  county.  The 
straw  chair  with  projecting  arms  did  service  several 
years  in  the  town  of  Rangoon  in  Burmah.  A  very 
beautiful  slipper,  of  Dresden  china,  does  duty  as  a 
pen-holder  on  the  centre-table.  Engravings  covei 
most  of  the  walls  not  hidden  by  the  bookcases  ;  the 
most  interesting  being  Pe're  Hyacinthe  and  Heng 
stenberg,  the  commentator  on  the  Psalms. 

This  dwelling  "  hath  a  pleasant  seat."  It  faces  th<: 
east,  is  moderately  retired  from  the  street,  and  is  upo: 
an  elevation  gently  rising  for  some  distance,  up  which 
sweeps,  in  a  graceful  curve,  the  public  road.  Follow 
ing  this  in  its  descent,  and  then  almost  to  the  top  of 
a  lesser  acclivity,  one  comes  to  a  rural  church  ideally 


Rev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith.  229 

situated,  and  forming,  amid  its  trees,  an  attractive 
sight  across  the  pretty  vale  from  the  northern  side  of 
Dr.  Smith's  home.  This  view  is  English  in  its  quiet 
grace  and  natural  beauty. 

Returning  now  by  the. road,  and  going  on  past  the 
house  again,  a  spacious  village  green  is  passed,  and 
you  come  to  another  church,  the  one  over  which  Dr. 
Smith  was  many  years  settled,  fit  in  position  to  glad 
den  an  American  George  Herbert.  It  is  embowered 
in  a  corner  where  roads  cross  on  the  broad  plain 
from  which  rises,  on  the  left  of  the  main  road  we  have 
trodden,  a  long  and  high  hill.  This  is  crowned  by 
the  buildings  of  the  Newton  Theological  Institution 
of  which  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hovey  is  President.  One  who 
toils  up  the  winding  tree-lined  avenue,  will  be  reward 
ed  by  reaching  an  eminence  which  will  bear  compari 
son  with  that  where  was  once  the  old  Ursuline  Con 
vent  of  Charlestown,  or  with  Andover's  plateau  and 
elegant  shades,  or  the  delightful  crests  of  Amherst. 
On  the  west,  the  view  is  particularly  fine.  Dr.  Hackett 
used  to  compare  it  to  that  from  the  Acropolis  of 
Athens.  On  the  horizon  rise  Monadnock  and  Wachu- 
sett,  with  many  a  town  and  village  between.  At 
your  foot  are  the  churches  and  a  beautiful  little  sheet 
of  water,  which,  with  the  mount  on  which  we  are 
standing,  gives  the  situation  some  claim  to  be  regard- 


230  Poets'  Homes, 

ed  as  an  American  miniature  "Lake  District."  Sail 
ing  or  rowing  out  upon  it,  and  looking  up  the  height, 
the  scene  is  German  or  Italian  in  its  bold  and  roman 
tic  character.  The  hues  in  the  stone  of  the  chapel, 
and  its  architecture,  embracing  a  heavy  tower,  give  it, 
set  upon  the  wooded  hill,  an  air  of  age,  and  recall 
the  castle  sites  on  Como,  or  one  of  those  still  inhabit 
ed  religious  establishments  which  rise  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Danube. 

Not  very  far  from  the  water  is  the  former  home  oi 
Dr.  Hackett,  and  following  west  the  road  upon  which 
it  lies,  towards  Brooklawn,  the  country-seat  of  Gov. 
Claflin,  the  traveller  first  comes  to  the  portal  of  the 
cemetery  in  which  the  scholar  now  reposes.  Dr. 
Smith  has  chosen  a  final  resting  place  here  among 
the  urns  of  this  and  other  friends.  Sure  we  are  that 
none  could  wish  for  them,  or  for  himself,  a  fairer  spot 
to  rest  one's  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth.  It  is  a  good 
place  for  the  dawn  of  the  immortal  morning  on  him 
who  wrote,  years  ago,  "  The  morning  light  is  break 
ing." 

There  is  little,  in  meeting  Dr.  Smith,  to  remind  one 
of  such  thoughts  ;  but,  in  four  years  more,  the  famous 
Harvard  class  of  "  Twenty-nine,"  will  have  sung  the 
words,  "  My  Country,  'tis  of  thee,"  a  half-century, 
and  Dr.  Holmes  is  beginning  to  speak  of  his  own 


8ev.  Dr.  S.  F.  Smith. 


231 


tailing  voice.  Gently  may  he  and  his  classmates  fail 
and  fade  from  their  activities,  distant  yet  be  the  day 
when  those  who  knew  him  of  whom  this  paper  has 
spoken,  shall  stand  and  muse  :  — 

Here  lies  who  hymned  America ;  to  sing  or  preach, 
Dante's  suggestive  words  our  question's  tribute  teach, 
Where  was  "  a  better  smith  of  the  maternal  speech  ?  " 

Since  the  main  part  of  this  was  written,  Dr.  Smith'.* 
home  has  lost  one  who,  for  nearly  forty  years,  was  its 
honored  and  beloved  inmate.  Mrs.  Ann  W.  Smith, 

the  mother  of 
his  wife,  died 
August  20th, 
1878.  Born 
July  28,  1786 
a  sister  of  the 
eminent  judge, 
the  late  Hon. 
Daniel  Apple- 
ton  White,  and 
OUTSIDE  THB  STUDY  WINDOW.  .  married  almost 

seventy  years 

since,  this  venerable  lady  carried  one's  thoughts  back 
to  the  early  days  of  the  elder  Quincy  and  Webster, 
Dana  and  Bryant,  and  Madame  Patterson  Bonaparte. 


232  Poets'  Homes. 

At  ninety-two,  however,  her  interest  in  life  was  keen, 
and  her  beauty  of  spirit,  fitly  enshrined  in  a  noble 
figure,  looked  forth  from  a  face  round,  full  and  fair. 
The  writer  will  ever  remember  the  honor  and  pleasure 
of  handing  Madame  Smith  to  breakfast,  in  her  son- 
in-law's  home,  two  months  previous  to  her  death,  just 
before  the  family  left  Newton  for  their  cottage  by  the 
sea.  It  was  there,  where  she  was  accustomed  to 
bathe  with  much  zest,  that,  a  few  weeks  later,  she  had 
a  fall  which  soon  proved  fatal  to  the  body,  and  freed 
the  soul,  of  the  aged  Christian. 


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